The hazy grate of a morning

The hazy grate of a morning, churning out brightness, through wads of  fragmented clouds, accompanied by cool and moist breeze that flows through a gaunt figure, lying on a four legged steel frame. The figure
doesn't appear to move much, lost amidst its acts. What acts? There is no semblance of movement, but there is no quietude either.

It appears to be lost in oblivion, with shapes passing through it. Though lethargic, its in motion, answering questions put across it, fighting the urge, the compulsion, and the compunction , all together in a moment.


They all give it up. All of them. It appears to get hazier, darker.The darkness engulfing him, yet he loves its warmth and assurance.There is no surprise thrown in, the scenes move from one dark frame to
another. With that silence of light, the brightness of voices appear as broken shards of fragile hope. He resents hope, it's chaotic, rather despair allures him, for its much more assuring and perpetual.

Fragments beat fragments, darkness banters around, frolicking with the darkness itself, for the darkness itself was the doer and receiver, the beginning and the end..... All join the fun and frolick that has ensued. The fight is tumultuous. It rotates, circulates, disturbs and then all of a sudden the huge silence of calm dark moment. The resounding darkness. The reverberating darkness. passing from his eyes to mind and then back to the eyes. It was reassuring back again. The story began ...

Across the street moved a chain of people , jostling for space. It was crowded . In the crowd moved a face, unknown, undefined. The face was , in a way , definitive of the faces that strolled around. They were all strangers, scampering for life out of unknown and unfriendly street. This was neither a chase nor race, it was existence. An existence that redeemed itself by scampering for it. They were but all travelers fro heaven above and hell beneath. The face was of children , of fate and destiny, whose acts were sealed as acts that ensured
existence.

But that face, the one that had been in the throes of the ghost within her, stopped. She was being watched, by a pair of eyes, across the street, soft nudge of which tingled her stoned heart. Who was he? Standing across the street dressed in black and with glinting black eyes.

The darkness of his eyes, blackened the hazleness of her own eyes. The person in black, smirked, and began looking sideways in conceit. She started moving towards him, with a shine of achievement sparkling from her, through that bright morning Sun. Cutting through the file of dead monotonous trotters, she crossed the first half and reached upon the divide of the street, but she could go no further . He stretched out his hands in anticipation of hers. Of her warmth. But chill ensued. It became cold, and his hands shivered with cold. The street became desolate, as he himself was. The girl, stood on the divider, stoned perhaps, with the glint of her eyes replaced with the haze of mist.

The story turned into itself, full circle. The morning with the misty breeze had stepped up to her heart and as the slender, stoned figure squirmed on the steel the darkness sped away. This was the morning, that she had fought with the questions and now had they dried up. There was only a bright noise now, as she sighed through the hazy morning, with her hands stretched out, dangling.