But you are not doing it to be killed. You are doing it to show that traffic cannot slow you down. Besides the traffic in your mindscape is even worse, all those things overcrowding a brain! You shriek; I want this to get over! But the shriek drowns in a blare of horns. You simply stand in their way. They ask you to move aside.
Of course I managed to cross the road. And it was raining too. I had phuchhka and cha a little while back, the tamarind had curdled the tea, and my stomach was full of a fulsome yoghurt? chhaanaa? I wanted to puke. But I simply vented my rage on three friends. I sprinted across into the great ether of 8B where millions throng for sundry vehicles. Snort. And they stared at my disappearing back, wandering whether I had finally let the November sun kill me. (The November sun as we all know is detrimental to one's mental and physical health. It implies dissatisfaction with all things material, and beautiful pain in all things spiritual, and assures pots of snot in all things bronchial.)
Now of course, this is a brilliant analysis, but the sun was not up today after the first half and I am positively boring in the second half i.e., after the interval. Like all Bollywood movies, yawn. Now I keep thinking that if I lived in a larger cosmopolis I'd be dead by now. And I have this one friend who keeps cutting her hair these days. Like me, she now considers her hair to be The Abject. I, for example, adore my crap, my vomit, my snot etc etc but I cannot stand my hair sticking around on my scalp for too long. But she does a better job of abjecting it, I must say. I have another friend who has some sort of a bipolar disorder and either sulks until I feel like sprinting across the road like a madman, or laughs maniacally until I feel like sprinting across the road like a madman. Ahem.
Correction; Madwoman. Sigh.
I am glad that I have ranted and disenchanted, once again. I have written too much poetry of late, both sad and funny. By the way, this is killer stuff:
Do I dare
to be; May Sinclair? (My sarcasm is on a different plane of reality altogether.)
Would I dare to do
Charlotte Mew? (She, as a closet lesbian, jumped on the rather unattractive May Sinclair.)
Would I dare to resort to frowning
To stop the prolific Mrs. Browning? (If only that could have made Aurora Leigh shorter.)
And what would have happened if I dared to smile
At Tennyson, Arnold and Carlyle? ( For the sake of poetic beauty I did not include Ruskin. I hope the Pre-Raphaelite brethren did not smile at Ruskin too often.)