The art of killing conversations
You are tired from the day's work. You lie down in bed but you can't sleep. You are waiting for the call that never comes through. You twiddle with your phone to make sure it is working. The glow from the small screen brightens up your face. But that's artificial. You are not really glowing. Your eyes twitch at the sudden brightness.They are tired. For you work all day and you don't sleep at night. You turn the phone over and try to doze away. But the conversations start to play. They are quite clear. No static, no call drop, as sharp as your senses. But they are unreal. Like all the good things in life. Not to be confused with surreal. Surreal exists, a surreal evening for example. Unreal is fake. A fake evening can't exist. However, a fake conversation can.
The fake conversations seem so real because you have had them for as long as you can remember. The voice is distinct. Even the pronunciations you remember correctly. They echo in your mind every time you close your eyes. Goosebumps and beads of sweat appear almost at the same time. The sultry atmosphere is not comforting either. So you start to wonder how could the phone not ring. How could the call not come through. What could have gone wrong?
Your train of thought has now left the station, moving like those Chinese bullet trains, turning everything around you in a colourful blur. You scream but you can't hear yourself. It moves like a foreign train for sure but it is running on the Indian tracks, the familiar chug-chug rings in your ears. Is this the future you imagine? You look outside, no it's not. There are skyscrappers all around but you can make out the morning squatters by the tracks.
Someone has pulled the chain, you hear the voice. The train has halted. You can't hear anything but the voice. You scream once again only to be drowned by that familiar sweet voice. It's not comforting. You wonder how. How did two people drift apart? Just like logs that come tumbling together down a waterfall but drift away when they run into still waters. Strange lessons Mother Nature can teach you. Conversations that ran into hours cease to a few seconds followed by awkward silence until it is time to go home. And thats what you do, alight from the train and walk back home. This time talking to yourself, trying to drown the voice. Hoping for a blissful evasive slumber.
The fake conversations seem so real because you have had them for as long as you can remember. The voice is distinct. Even the pronunciations you remember correctly. They echo in your mind every time you close your eyes. Goosebumps and beads of sweat appear almost at the same time. The sultry atmosphere is not comforting either. So you start to wonder how could the phone not ring. How could the call not come through. What could have gone wrong?
Your train of thought has now left the station, moving like those Chinese bullet trains, turning everything around you in a colourful blur. You scream but you can't hear yourself. It moves like a foreign train for sure but it is running on the Indian tracks, the familiar chug-chug rings in your ears. Is this the future you imagine? You look outside, no it's not. There are skyscrappers all around but you can make out the morning squatters by the tracks.
Someone has pulled the chain, you hear the voice. The train has halted. You can't hear anything but the voice. You scream once again only to be drowned by that familiar sweet voice. It's not comforting. You wonder how. How did two people drift apart? Just like logs that come tumbling together down a waterfall but drift away when they run into still waters. Strange lessons Mother Nature can teach you. Conversations that ran into hours cease to a few seconds followed by awkward silence until it is time to go home. And thats what you do, alight from the train and walk back home. This time talking to yourself, trying to drown the voice. Hoping for a blissful evasive slumber.
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