by Kimaya Natekar

I sometimes feel the need
to be sensible
Live in the physical world
The tangible, concrete, factual
Align myself to the clock that ticks
in the robotic, systematic manner that it does
But I often exist
outside of time
In the interval between two musical notations
or within
the unpublished manuscripts on my computer
Snuggled between the complex plots
that make up my favorite thriller films
In birdsong
One with the splotches of acrylic paint
on my mother’s canvases
In figures of speech
Words unspoken
and texts unsent
Between rapture and melancholia
Amidst
The perpetual hum of eternity

Photo by Lo on Unsplash