Mornings

I spin little webs of time on my hands, and watch the creases mingle with the thread. Miniature sundials drawing themselves on young wrinkles telling stories of adolescence. The sun dawns every day, climbing up a steep hill, and sits on its haunches puffing on a cigar. The smoke spills like almost-boiling milk, over swollen patches of insomnia, and I struggle to wake up. But how do I wake up when I’m already awake?

Fyodor Dostoevsky awaits me.
He silently watches me from his indignant perch on the desk, daring me to pick him up. I stand up, untangling myself from the paper planes that I make of my sheets, and return its bold, one-eyed stare.
Not today, love, not today.
The existentialist rebels in short spurts.
I turn away and I can hear the buzz of noise. It whips around the book in an angry vortex of sprawling gnats, who've laid their eggs in my head. I swipe the air with my hand, brushing away the noise, and immediately, all is silent.

I am following the mechanics of a pre-programmed mind. The only consolation is that I was the programmer. Once Upon a Time.

I need a smudge of red earth from the soles of the Kathak dancer, and a small cup of water from the fisherman’s well of ocean secrets.
I need the gypsies from a once-forgotten desert, to build their sand castles on my legs, to bury me in sand and perform their pagan rites around the fire in my eyes.

I need a messiah.