ink

Inked onto my ankle like a prison stamp is the mark of my bondage to this world. The mark of our common bondage? Perhaps, because we came from the same place. Physically atleast, you and I can trace our existence back to one definite point: this womb, cold like a cave, warm like an island. And one way to know things is to know where they come from. 

For ends are not shadowy but impossible to capture under reason. I could maybe use imagination? But my superstitious mind refuses to play with karma by clumsy attempts at forecasts.

Does hope gather dust or become dust? Does it disappear into its primary constituents, or do they all lie intact, like dust ridden green bottles lined up stacked up neat shelves sparkling with trickles of eggwhite sunlight. 

To think of structures, shelves, sunlight: ;all this is comforting. 

It is perhaps the only access we have to the world: the structure that reason imposes on it, our tinted glasses.

birthday presents anyone? buy me sunglasses.