Its time to begin, I think.
I could start by telling you where it all happens. I could start by telling you who starts it. I could also start by telling you why it starts. But what good would that do? So I will simply start. We sat there on the terrace…looking for solitude and solace. We got it. But the incessant din of the festivities, ceaseless for nine nights. The kitschy nights of the goddess. But we were fine. Just fine. The festivities were for the hackneyed. We were not hackneyed. Detour…is it that? Or is it alternative? I would not know. You just might. Do you not always have an opinion about everything? You do. I envy you that. I also envy you your banality. I am also left- handed. Is that not icing? Ironical, I would say. Would you not? I think you would. But that’s ok. Now that is one sentence I have learnt to say… “But that’s ok” (read: I am sorry).
God, I was cold. The din did nothing to keep me warm. It enveloped me, yes sir, that it did, alright. But comfort me, it did not. Silence makes me uncomfortable. That it does. And cold too. Icing, again, is it not. Cold and silence. Lets call it one thing, lets make it an equation. Despondent. Grey, navy, with a tinge of that irksome steel blue. I call that color-the color of despondence. I think you too would call it that. We broke the silence once in a while. It was like pink polka-dots in a field of despondence (read: out of place).
We spoke of reds and greens, touched them blues. What we sadly missed was the purple. It was what made it meaningless banter. The absurdity of the situation made me laugh. I mean, here I was, a seemingly prosaic boy…should I have not been there with all the world? But. Yes, so here I was- seeking purple. It came eventually, and that is what it is all about. Purple and the smell of coffee beans.