Read Time:1 Minute, 38 Second
the bus is already waiting for me. . . on the square notice board hung by the corner of my room, the toy bus. 7pm is when the world gets out of its madness & 7am is when it returns to it gladly, but now a face in a crowd of faces suddenly is robbed of the madness & we suddenly start to seek fingers finding creative edge, making canvases upon canvases, mapping out silhouettes upon silhouettes, first in the kitchen with previously unappealing items; we watch table knives become palette knives & we are just fine. now bowing in obeisance to the worship of gadgets is the early morning devotion as they take us in a new form of guidance round the clock & and over the shore—the shore of meaningless patterns. we, zoom into everything zoom-able as they are a brief consolation of a fulfilling life, make do with the crumbs leftover from our nightmares, for now all we have is a dream-ridden reality, a reality where glows of lambency settle down upon each of our faces like the sunset at winter, & we call it success, how close! we all are happy on our screens, thanks to our protective screen guards & of course, our toothbrushes. now we run on our fingers to snap out of the glosses of this reality. the rebels still hold colors as hostages & books remain the archenemies at hand & i am unsurprised because this is the aftermath of nostalgia.