new year of a writer

Me at Tagore’s garden

If you get real for a minute; the end of a year is like the rest of the year. You wake up with the same listlessness or enthusiasm of another day stretched out before you like a magic rug. And your rug morphs to reflect your insides. Some days it’s candy pink, smooth and sweet like a toddler’s tongue. Other days, its a tattered grey, a refugee’s scarf abandoned over a railway track.