The glory days

Raindrops on car windows look like glitter when lights falls on them at night,as you drive to the supermarket where you'll walk down the aisles aimlessly,shopping cart empty."I just enjoy grocery shopping" you say to yourself.
You actually go there to watch a veil of smoke dance sensuously over the ice cream storage area,invoking your gaze to watch the screen of frost,a crowd of consumers walk past you looking for other things,or they look at you too long,and too hard,with the kind of scrutiny a scientist dedicates to a deadly microbe.
You need a brown paper bag with slits on the eyes to hide yourself from assault  and battery of gazes,later when you find yourself alone on a back alleyway or a footpath,next to overspilling garbage dumps,with a lone stray dog,you can puke your guts out into it,the smell of putrid smiles is nauseating.It has nothing to do with rainy days,you're used to them now.Start to wonder why ants and rants have such long straight lines,intersecting each other like there's no tomorrow,and conclude that coffee is a boon to all of mankind.It's only Friday night when the city's on it's streets,a flock,a fleet,shuffling to a beat they blindly grind their two left feet too each day,every week,for months and years,galore.It's a textbook excuse of a living.
A child of accident is a lucky one because he has someone to bag the blame on to,or maybe it just blows more because he shouldn't have belonged,had it not been for the lack of a second thought.Why,India needs the colors of fall to adorn October to make it warmer and colder at the same time,until you feel just fine.
The smell of celery is so enticing only to you,oh,the sweet smell of greens.Songs from different decades shuffle through your brain..Maybe you should zone out like a zombie instead of sending messages across hemispheres inside the globe of your head, when you stare at shadows on ceilings,maybe you should dance on the streets to celebrate what you feel.What it feels like to be a skeletal soul.Raw,raw,rugged,whole.Wholesome as a bowl of soup.
Indigo tiles on kitchen walls are soothing like magazine rifles are soothing against the cool skin of your temples.
Hitler and Gandhi were the same person in cardinal essence,their lives just spiraled towards different ends.
Why do dogs have that light in their eyes like sparklers on Diwali,who stole the light from your eyes.
You know that feeling when you skip through the lawn sprinklers on a summer day and get your clothes all dirty and your mother screams at you because mothers scream at children and children make castles out of mud,with little flowers at the windows,such skilled masonry and the drill perpetuates into long summer nights of hide and seek where you have to pee so bad,you can't breathe.Such imagery it suffocates you,like when you're standing on stage and your mouth forgets to move and your throat dries itself up,forgetting it can produce sound.What a wastage of memory space,nahi?
But yet you never forget to include the irrelevant details like rattling swings,ceramic bowls heaped onto each other,striped umbrellas,hot cups of cocoa and the sunlight on white spaces that looks like a rod of  rainbow colours.
Drink up your rose milk,or flush it down,the staircase where you sat talking to the stars still has the sharp edges where you once fell.The scar running along your back is memory of who became you in the eyes of those who watch. Where did you go,where did they go,the days galore?