I bathe in the dimness of a dying light,
a bluish light with shades of flitting white —
a light that spreads far and wide,
slipping through the cracks in the mud walls,
and calling my name as it streaks past;
it finds its place on a dusty floor,
and in its wake, an uprising begins.
bounding through the air in passionate defiance;
I watch them dance,
first slowly and then quicker, and quicker, and quicker
every ray of light birthing a new dusty rebel
till I lose sight of any one individual speck,
and all that my eyes can register
is the furor of a magnificent, blue storm.
I lean against the cool frame of my cot,
the arch of my back sliding comfortably between wooden curves,
and I think;
does the dust lament my beauty?
Does the light marvel at the texture of my skin —
at the shine in my eyes, or the joy in my smile?
In a moment far too surreal
I rise up from my body,
and float above,
hovering in the crevices of a weathered ceiling.
I search my frozen face for traces of emotion,
and the cloying stench of desperation shrouds my being.
I look down curiously,
at what appears to be a rather peculiar human affliction,
why is it that we fiercely crave beauty,
that we must eke it out from the mundane,
and demand it at every passing moment?
I am not but a soul in a sea of many more,
not but a comma in a larger statistic,
but I see, clear as the day I was born,
that we seek the extraordinary
to reassure ourselves that it exists,
that there is a world outside deadlines and degrees,
outside successes and failures
and space and time —
a world that exists to grant refuge from claustrophobic constructs.
I am weak;
leave me be
and let me run wild,
sprinting through shining daffodil fields,
chasing the sun as it travels through a sea-blue sky;
let me run wild,
reveling in the breathtaking beauty of an old lightbulb,
or the product of agitated unswept floors;
let me run wild,
so when I must return to reality,
I can survive.
Written by Yash Kumbhat Artwork by Reya Ahmed