... Its Four in the morning. Sixth of May Two Thousand and Eighteen.
These are times when you find yourself brushing your beard for last 17 minutes staring into mirror. Secretly hoping that it will stare back.
These are times when everything feels like continuum. Continuum of time.
Times when you are working, you take time out and good night everyone and resume work. Then you see it's time to say good morning and you are little ashamed to do that. Since, neither did night fall on you nor did sun rise.
Times when you get so numb working and brushing your beard that you see Taxi Driver by Scorsese till end and that psychological thriller feels so void of everything that you Alt+Tab it only to get back to work again.
Times when your playlist is also a continuum. Ranges from Mehdi Hassan to NFAK to Mozart's 40th to Vivaldi to Fur Elise to Flamenco Duet's to Ali Sethi to Kishore Kumar. Everything is playing in a shuffle and you are not even bothered.
All ups and downs are ironed out.
Its all in your head.
Time is in your head and so is space.
Times when Fajar doesn't feel like it because you didn't have to drag your existence out of bed for that.
Times when someone asks you, what did you have in the breakfast and you can't remember. Whether you had a breakfast or not. When was it. Was it today or yesterday. Then you spend an hour thinking what you actually had in breakfast and you still have no idea.
Everything feels like a dream when you can't tell when the morning actually dawned and when did the evening set.
If it is a dream, will it actually be fulfilled?
Everything vanishes around me, and works are born as if out of the void. Ripe, graphic fruits fall off; My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will. - Paul Klee
All is true except the ripe, graphic fruits part!
Took 38 seconds to find that Publish button.