November

Drawn out to maximum tensile strength in a sound proof chamber, the body hovers in timeless vaccuum. The automaton veneer struggles to keep up with the expectations of the mundane routine. Within the shell, the core unawakened by anti-depressants responds only, and that too silently, to the missed calls on the cell phone and text messages rare. Beeps and uncommunicative silence alternate like soutures, pricking and piercing the sentient surface to pull broken skin back together. Between cognition and impulse, long conversations surpass. The inertia prolongs and persists, obediently, quietly and yet restlessly. Prodded by memory: satiate then bereft, the intertwining of faith and unbridled lack thereof, the manacles of circumstance, defenseless vulnerability, soaring so high and then forsaken unwillingly but compliantly in a bottle marked, “obsession”. Can time be forgiven for eight months of resistance, of illusion, of God and godlessness?