Access to my half done character...

Once I was so thin that my head looked bigger than my body, then I became so fat that my head looked like a small mushroom growing from a misshapen rock. One day I attained the proportionate size when my head matched my body and that day I died, a swift death, like snapping shut a book before finishing it.

I don’t throw away the blunt people or used ends of old lipsticks and kohl of my mother and sisters. One reason is that I loved the names of these lipsticks, they have pretty names - Coral Kiss, Crushed Almonds, Mocha, Frosted Cherries, Peach Passions and Fruits & Nuts. I use them to write on mirrors. Lipsticks and Kohl give a smudgy effect, they can be layered, blended and rubbed off easily. And hey, let me remind you that knowing names of all this brands doesn't makes me a gay. It is all due to my curious nature.

I am bit bulgy now, with the head the size of a small cashew nut. I’m afraid that someone might try and pick my brain since its only the size of a nut, someone might mistake it to be a real nut, not that there is much difference.

I, the half-done character, am waiting breathlessly for the mind to get back to reality.But he is still floating in that rainbow-colored cloud.

I cannot fit in anywhere because no story has been written that could include me as a character. So to those who say that I can write on my own life, I'm really sorry at this point. I’m oddly hanging in the mid air like a paper decoration, waiting to be unfolded into a three dimensional form and fitted into a plot. She is back and giving me her full attention. I am acquiring more and more details as the train passes each station. A soft, gauzy sun lightens the compartment.

I love to sink my fingers into a jar of mayonnaise and lick my fingers whenever a cake is being made. It is a stupid detail to be attributed to my character but since it has been added, I have to stick to it.

I'm distracted by the fresh smelling, immaculate white book reposing inside my bag. I had picked it up from a posh book store. The cover had a lovely picture of a flock of birds flying, it was one of my favorite authors too. And birds reminds me of her as her name means a "A Bird".

Balanced it on my knee and scrawl: “Why is that all of us are obsessed with contriving reasons for our every action, thought, feeling? Why is purposelessness associated with negativity? And always under the list of the ’shouldn’t be’s? Why am I writing about the same crap over and over again? Is it a mediocre, micro-cosmic version of the myth of Mahabharata? am I trapped in it? in this eternal repetition, while the world moves on?”

I lay forgotten between the pages, one among my many incomplete creations. I picked up the new book lovingly and started to read. Outside a damp, sultry morning was slowly baking the landscape.