The Red Bag Of Dreams

Its too brown here. Nothing bright, nothing pretty. My red kurti is the brightest object in this dull, dreary place.
In places its green. And beige. Hideous. It smells funny here. Like body odor, and air freshner, and medicine, and humans hating their work, and feeling like failures.

Its blue outside. Blue, and sunny, with bright greens, and black and yellow rickshaws that loot innocent Mumbaikars.
Its pretty slow today, this otherwise noisy, bustling city. Its a Saturday. A small part of the working crowd, makes its way to work, knowing that they'll leave early, work very little, and relax a lot. The weekend is here.

But I'm not allowed outside. I'm stuck in this brown box. Unsure of what the weekend will bring to me. Unsure if I'll even have a weekend. I want to rush outside. Stand in the sun, feel my skin burn, and the wind rush through my hair. Then worry about how I'm going to brush the knots out of my waist length hair. I'll fantasize about going crazy and chopping it off. And wearing it in a crazy pixie hairstyle. With red highlights. But I'll know in my heart, I could never cut it off. I want to run on the beach and hold your hand and watch the waves. And feel sand in between my toes. I want to feel the waves crash against my legs, and wet my jeans.
I want freedom. To do what I want. To be who I want, and speak how I want. I don't want to be forced into this brown and green box. I don't want to come here, fighting against my will, and what my heart begs for.
I don't want to cry.
I want to go on a long long walk, with my dog. And watch her huff and puff and chase me. I want to go shopping with my mother, and get ready for the festive season. Navratri is coming. I want to swap books and authors with Dad. And tease for how slow he is. I want to tuck my feet under me, and read all day.

Far away. Where the blue sky stretches endlessly. Where the grass is green everywhere. Where work is fun, and my mind at peace.


The Romantic Cynic.
:)