On a humid Sunday afternoon, when I am listening to Billy Holiday and reading Murakami, quite a contrasting pair as it turned out, I suddenly find myself inside the aeroplane. I hear the angry effort of the engine and see the over concerned faces of the fight stewardesses, carrying on with their routine but making me claustrophobic with the way they come gliding down the aisle, in their immaculate costumes, stockings without the expected tiny rip, the hairpins driven straight to their brains, almost as if they are meant to suffer edging headaches with every polite nod. They seem like angels of the Dead, fooling me into believing that this clumsy heavy thud of a machine, with artificial wings is going to take me home. I am due to go home soon, on this replay of a flight scene and I keep thinking if I will die of suffocation.
I have difficulty breathing right now. So I take a cigarette and try to coax my empty lighter into firing up one last time. I keep thinking this is the last I ask from my lighter. It never is. I take a long drag through the fresh filter. The soft cushion of the filter on my lips gives me comfort. How could one ever think that such whiteness can be so harmful? Then I see the filter is already brown by the second drag. I am petrified at the thought of imagined darkness two thousand feet up the air, but feel comforted by holding death between my index and middle finger. Of course, the advertising tag that smoking kills is a myth. I could very well die up above so high and where there are diamonds.
I have tried to avoid pseudo intellectual movies and books, thinking that I could give my mind a break from obsessing about morbidity. I refuse to indulge in such thoughts as and when I get the slightest indication of the conversation steering into these dark streets, I freeze in thoughts time. I refuse to go out in the gloom and have my soul so barred under the moonlight. That is the thing about moonlight; it does not cover up the murk of the soul like the glaring sun does. The sun is a huge lie after all. The hope of light, the hope of newness, the hope of tomorrow is all myth. Nothing changes. The stink remains sunlit days after days. The sun is an illusion like all other man made fantasies.
A long pause
I am okay now. I have managed to look at myself and have survived. I need not think about the aeroplane or the night. I have successfully stopped the rolling thoughts. I can now go talk to another social being and gossip like other girls.
