Slipping between random movements of my eyelids, I pause to breathe. My breath rises and falls; it chases the film that unfolds. I’m a witness. I can still hear faint tunes in my grandmother’s voice — her lullaby about two parrots perched on a green tree playing on repeat, her sweet high-pitch reminding me of tiny tender raw mangoes soaked in rock salt, and pickled to perfection to last the rest of the year. A small space between the bookcase and study table to curl up with a storybook. A handmade desk. A tiny box of magic tricks. The song remains intact even today playing between purple, green and pink flashes as I rest my eyes. It’s 2am, and I know what I’m seeing. I’m a protagonist and a witness— in this trance. Surrounded by yellow highlands that glow in magic hour, I see them facing each other. A lion with a cub looking deeply into the garner eyes of a lioness with her cub. No growling or no fighting, absolutely no reactions. A calm kingdom of four — a freedom to be as the animals they should be. A kingdom of love, for love.
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I slacked and moped around, whined about being creatively blocked, and emotionally drained. June was a month of shadows.
I roll my tongue and hide it inside the cave of my mouth.
The sun bursts into a million flames, painting the sky with its richness of light ochers, bright yellows and burnt siennas.
I breathed fire. I revered the sun. I wore my passion in my heart, and swore my life to my art. I danced to the tune of cackling embers.