The Nothing Song of Life.

The house is empty and silent. S is gone, on a week-long office trip to Bangalore. Most of the tiny light bulbs are gone, folding one half of the house into the natural darkness of the night. My appetite is gone from the weariness of working, and all my money is gone, from caring for mother and father.

It does not help that I am listening to depressing music from Sigur Rós. I sat down with the laptop with the purpose of making lists; decisive bullet points that would guide me through the rest of the week, instructing me to take my calcium, finish my report, set up meetings and analyse documents, call old friends and write and paint in the still unused drawing book S gave me two years back.

I haven’t had the time to paint in the last two years. My head is crammed with ideas for paintings and stories, magic pangolins and recipes and mother and satellites from which swings the earth. Sometimes, if you look at me discreetly, you can see the edges of these thoughts in the corners of my eyes, as though they are spilling over. I have seen them, day after day, in the reflection in the glass window by which I sit and have my lunch. Sometimes, I must pause and watch my eyes in the mirror because they are so beautiful with the acknowledgement of life.