Glamorous lightweight raindrops 
from the October sky keep 
my swollen heart in a secluded 
place, mostly on Sunday nights. 
These readymade, numerous notions of 
making 
progress, at once, turn my methodical 
garden of words upside down and 
i end up getting the constant feel of 
being one of the most miserable pieces 
on this planet, called Mother Earth. 
Truth be told, while feeling 
an abrupt urge of being a perfectionist in 
words and creating suspense, i keep on 
building 
up a mock-epic out of my legendary hours 
spent on endless failures in this 
line-making process. 
The regret remains and also prepares 
my sanity to head over for a long holiday 
and turn my bedtime stories into like 
an impure incense to 
spread their vaporous nuisance all over my overwhelming chest.
The reverse energy to fight the fear of being a loser at the climax point of writing does not seem to make my heart happy
at those miserable hours with scribbling. 
Thus, my nights are put to an improper 
sleep and i have the most horrible dreams 
about the funnel of my insane voyages to fantasy 
and 
let me tell you beforehand that every freaking time it only leads to a long time to lament until the discovery of a new story.

Purbita Das is currently trying to find the lost pieces of her existence through words, at the same time, doing her post graduation in Applied Linguistics and ELT at the University of Dhaka.