12.55am.
No sleep.
Dogs are barking.
Mosquitoes by my ear and forhead.
Netflix.
Candy crush.
In my peripheral the next title loads.
It is a foreign movie, subtitles et al.
I can’t play, and read at the same time.
Yet.
I sit up.
‘Based on a short story, The Railway Aunty, by Mohan Sikka.’
A character.
A woman.
A mysterious woman.
She has everything I want.
She has nothing I want.
She is mysterious.
To know of mystery.
To know the use of it.
To be a way wanted.
To be a way quietly.
To have highest devotion.
To have deepest nakedness.
If I were a story.
If I were a poem.
How is it I am written.
How is it I am said.
Am I a book well translated to the screen.
Am I a movie that is a small slice of the book not well cut.
Its my last life.
If I complete this level.
An hour of Infinite lives await.
Studies say that screen time at night keeps you awake.
Light emissions cause sleep deprivation.
AmarePoeta.
Screens off.
Outside my mind 