Been reading a bunch of short stories over weekend. Some Marquez and some Tagore. Very odd combination. One so very surreal and the other so very real. One blurring lines between reality and fantasy. Blurring the lines between life and death. The latter tugging at the very emotions that breathing creatures living. From rain filled paddy fields, to the crowded streets of Calcutta, a kabuliwaala and the little girl Mina, or kakima who proved she had'nt died by dying. I toggle between the two till all the colours in my head are mixed up and juxtaposed like a painters palette that bears no resemblance to the painting whatsoever. I am not sure what I feel anymore.

Havent seen the sun in a while now !