2 Feb 2006

Untitled

The bed beckoning me. Callin me.
My eyes tempting to shut.
Only for a minute
if it may so. Rest. Sleep. But
hours lie ahead. Like a never-ending road.


Stretching below me. Like a lazy cat.
Smirking. Hands straining
against blocks of letters.
Type. Type. Type. Type. Error.
A frown. Seconds wear on to minutes...

to hours...to days... to frames....
to stills... to shots...
The road smirks,
suppressing a snigger.
The eyes strain against the monitor.


Straining to read. To correct. To look
through the eyes of the other.
To adjust. To capture.
To take. To store. Write.
Talk. Read. Script. Re-write. Converse.


Record.


The magic is in the eyes. Seeing.
Touching. Feeling.
Remembering.
Reams of memories. Spools of
dreams. Tapes of moments. Tiresome.


Yet...


The cat smirks again knowigly. Twirling its tail. Knowingly.

7 comments:

  1. I know that cat. :-)

    I loved the poem,though do give it a title.

    And,please take off for home earlier when you can,okay?

    I wouldn't say get a life,but hey,that's the impolite version.

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  2. raag.. i wish i cud just go away some where.. i mean i do love my work.. but ya knoww..... :)keep visitin and readin da..

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  3. Anonymous10:15 am

    nice last para :-)

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  4. Anonymous5:24 pm

    i gez i will agree with antoinetta...
    nice one...though plz rephrase the last line....
    wud be nice..

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  5. why anonymous... y rephrase the last line? wat is displeasing abt it..

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  6. Its so ironical. People actually do love their work, which makes them put incredible amounts of effort and time, which ends up making them irritated due to the tiredness and overload. Its just that our minds want us to do a lot which is actually not supplemented well by the body. Aint I right about this?

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