I have spent my evenings
sitting at the window,
with my tea,
where I once wrote about
how I wished to be born in an early age,
when people were simple,
and the conversations simpler.
evenings at home carry with them;
a pool of ideas,
often fragmented, seldom connected.
Sometimes, I remember the mornings
that I have spent in the mountains,
worshipping the rising sun,
with coffee this time.
I’ve pretended to stay still,
trying not to think
but how could I resist?
when my eyes have already captured the sight of a man,
at the corner,
engrossed so much in himself,
that he has forgotten his tea has cooled down.
and my greedy mind has already started to build
the probable life story he could have.
How much I wish,
for tea to win over coffee,
to bring out the stories that are inside me.
While the other times,
I just wish mountains to win over home,
to paint the stories that are around me.
But every night,
when the clock strikes 11:11;
and it’s the time to make an actual wish;
no matter whether tea wins or coffee
or mountains win or home
the writer must always win,
and that’s all that matters.
~ Soumya Kapoor
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