Having no time to think is not a bad thing.
It also means there is less time to hurt.
Running around chasing time.
Legitimately pushing feelings aside, rushing hurriedly past them.
Fully justified.

Back at my parents home,
lying in our bed, Saagar’s and mine when he was a baby,
looking at his beautiful pictures on the wall,
I cannot sleep.
Every toss and turn is filled with the crushing pain of memories,
that have left purple bruises on me..
The black ink of the night settles on me.
No matter how many times I splash it with the water of dawn, it refuses to leave.
The sun doesn’t darken me as much as the darkness of night.

A wanderer.
I have travelled through smoky galaxies like an entangled spark of consciousness,
an errant drop of divinity.
Landed on the earth like a moment cut-off from Time.
I wander aimlessly.
No country yet.
Neither a street, nor a home.
I wander as a soul in my own body.
Where is the destination?
Or is it just an illusion?
Like everything else?