Everything is white neon.

Dearest Arnab,

As it becomes night, this light metamorphoses every colour into some shade of its own, there are no reds and pinks and yellows and blues; only sterilised remnants, washed out leftovers.

I am tired, Arnab. In all that I feel, this is all I can say with certainty. That I feel tired, exhausted, drained with this interminable, irresolute mind of mine, that will not, will not decide. Will not leave, will not love. Will not rise above the desires of my body, and why must it, if it thinks that they are right and valid. So what is not? What is not right? What is not valid? And who can say this with certainty? Who will be a rock beside me, Arnab, and say, you must not, you must not; when they are scared that I will spit in their well meaning eyes.

I hate that, above all. Well meaning eyes. Because they have the temerity to know. To know. Do you know what a terrible thing that is, Arnab? To know right from wrong. Or to think you know, which is almost the same. The cheek. And then to flaunt it in my face, my face. I, who have never known what it is to know. I have stared into the darkness after I have come and he has come. I have stared into the benevolent blackness, and wondered until my head was ready to split, wondered unto heartache, and unto pain, and unto this exhaustion of today, what that split second pleasure is worth. And why it is worth so much with him.

And why it matters whether it is worth the same to him. Because you see, Arnab, I have read and I know the moral code, and the rectitude of the moral code that is behind an exchange (a free and voluntary exchange of sexual favours, if you like). I have thought I knew. But I am not sure any more.

And so I will hate people who do. And I will have tired eyes, and a mind that refuses to sleep, and a conscience that refuses to be. And these words, like ashes, unto ashes. Dust, unto dust.

Holy words and blasphemy make for boring reading; but you see, Arnab, that is not why I write. Or fuck.

Ketaki.