My body warbles in the dewy heat.
Vision blurred eyes sting from the gentle
pressures on my temple.
Vacant sloped painted ceilings,
White with wooden beams,
like school camps or dorms,
or family holidays.
Except that I am alone in
the company of white lamps,
not rich in mood setting,
or memory softening.
Rhythmic fan dance like reliable thoughts.
Ticking away at a comforting pace,
For which I am grateful, for
if there were stark silence, I should demand
Amber lights at least.
Don’t you agree?
I am woozy and wondering,
if there was a particular purpose,
for such moods.
As it seems neither to potter,
nor rest sustains the needs,
of such a space.
And so I write whether poetry,
or prose, as an action from discontent,
activity from anxiety.
To reach an end in itself.
NITHYA IYER 