fl*ck

At midnight, the desk lamp flickered. It was nothing out of the ordinary. The lamp was ancient but it still had utility. At least for Samrat.

He would have bought another lamp, had it not been for a lack of money. It was not as if money did not come. It did. But when it arrived, it went by on cans and bottles of cheap liquor.

Samrat never thought of it as an ill. Alcohol, according to him, was a boon. The sufis drank it and spilled poetry. He would argue. He was no sufi, however, and his argument was to merely fulfil his own rational irrationality.

There he was. On his desk. The lamp was still flickering. The white paper was empty. Nearly. It had a scribble. Right in the middle. It was unreadable. It was meant to be that way. He had written something decipherable but then decided to make it unreadable.

“Why did she have to leave me?” he thought.

“Why not?” a second thought invaded his brain.

The alarm rang. Not bedtime. Not even time to brush his teeth. Time to fill his glass.

Time to ignite the poetry that he lacked.

Time to give meaning to the meaningless.

Time to live another day.