crazymess

A day of lone homeness, with that old servant lady. Cant help remembering all the days, which accompanied all the hummable songs, that never went out of my mouth in solitude. All those hummable classical noises. I might have to run to home or something, out of all the pressure, that comes from all sides, to pop me out of this place, like the blood that comes out of that bigant's head when you poke it with a pin. How i love and loved, those songs, and all those whoever associated with those little noises..!
It all seems like a huge dream that's there always. here and there. now and then. all those rememberable poems that went along with the faces that looked like the manifestations of those poems, seemed to empty their colours of faces with the running of watches they wore. they all will still run, into red, blue and green. an year will go. so will ten years. then.? then i am here typing all this, about ten years back. ten years back, thats when i might have been thought of writing this all.. but what was i, then? probably a 5 th class boy. lrg school. first time to that school. those horrific days of tuitions studies marks and little things that would make you happy forever. like thinking about the day, when you would go from all that which pained you. haha.. images of those dreams, like those of thoughts mixed with pictures and small sounds. and finally get up to only find it all waiting for you somewhere there. here... and as it runs ten more years.. those watches, what would i write. i would write about today, about those dreams that almost teared me today. like all those daymares. about all the inertia of time that had finally reached a threshold level. about those hummable classical things, like all those tunes and all that including poems that are good to think of. about the place i would be in, about the place i would in, then, a hill. green colours around, here and there. that wouldnt matter much to me, then. yeah.. that rain, then infinite rain with death like cold, those i'd be with, at that point, all those of those distant times, says to me, 'type this all..' so that you can read it again then, read it again, thinking about the fortune doers, we have been. thinking about the day we thought for, that we would be in. thinking about all those vision and mission like sentences uttered in times of intensified miseries, mysteries and thoughtalks. and all those that i would tell you then.. then i would go there, near that computer.. then say, 'look what i knew'