Habit

by Goirick Brahmachari

We enter the exit
On a Sunday night at half-past seven, trying to erase time
Unacknowledging, as if, the hills were never there
No freezing moonless lonesome nights; as if,
The bus never returned, and the coffee cups were all empty,
And we never lost the road back to where
We would eventually crash; as if,
The sounds weren’t played and the doorbells never were rang
Nothing was ever there. Nothing is never there.


So, I turned to my routine
Like many months ago
To delineate time.


Practising inability, inhaling,
Exhaling bitterness and rhyme
Do not practice love.
Stop breathing, motherfucker.

So like heard of sheep, we return to the routine, again:

Wake up; drink your black coffee with the first cigarette
Brush, take a shower, talk to the autowallah if they may please,
inculcate their smiles; Reach office; come out with a cup of coffee, smoke
Hallucinate. Live.
Leave.

Continuity is easy. Everything else they say is overrated.
Everything you hate slowly becomes a habit.