The Ancient Immotility
Another dull winter day painfully crawls awayinto garden-variety biography just a run-of-the-mill résumé filled with antecedents whilom and to top it up a corrosive impostor syndrome. I lie quietly in the flickering, yellow lightof a jaundice-stricken forty-watt bulbtrying to think about something superbwhich would somehow improvethe way things do (or do not) movein my achromatic life. Nothing worthwhile emerges. Only some vague urges act outfrom their stingy hideouts. The clock pushes the evening furtherinto the dry, arid chill of the night so still.I sigh and switch off my ghost-likesleepy, vapid eyesinto the ancient time-lineof a vast, un-bridged solitudein my quarantined, immotile life. © Chandra S., 1995