two years..

it took me to warm up to the music of ray lamontagne.

story, skin of a moth

having given a life of waywardness to a year, i sat there wiling to be reformed in the middle of the room. a week back, in my new apartment. in a way, it was another day of mournful assurance. another moment of granularity. clothes still hanging out of boxes, cds on the floor, books on the bed.. for a while there, i did not know what it meant to be to liberated.

today, may be i understand it better.

i lived a life of a single man for a few years now. a life of reckless sociability, spattered moments of epiphany, and the same hollow sounding recital in my ears. it is a mood. it can be lost to time. it can be found in others' company. a period in one's life when things seem brighter, voices sweeter and some room enough for a friendly mirror on the side. to live such a life is easy. to convince one's self that it is, could be another tale.

saturday mornings had fallen victims to work, homes to hotels.. and life, to a searching sense of success. the body seems tired, the mind is brooding. behind these big windows lies a quiet city which talks a strange tongue. it has men and women in it, that live a life just like me. sitting on their breakfast tables, they wonder about things.

it is a strange thing, this place in my life. standing on a thread of time, balancing the life that was and a moment that will be.. i live. in situ. in this californication. sipping the watery tea from my cup.. i scratch the wood, leaving a trace on the brown mahogany. soft enough to scar, not too deep for it to bleed.. while i think this is a beautiful place, this empty house. floors that croak, walls that sleep.. an air that will bury the profanity, screamed in the middle of a yawn.

to write such a note in the light of a new day is not unusual. it is sometimes careless. but in this world, it is acceptable.