Burning | Laxmi Hariharan
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The world burned this weekend. Heated pavements,  rivulets of sweat pouring down the un-shirted joggers, flowers blossoming in abrupt surprise and the fallen leaves evaporating before twilight.

And with it the last vestiges of the veil lifted from my eyes.

She told me it was the giant hand hand of meaning pointing to me. The voice that never shuts up. The one I had lived with my entire life, which raised itself and asked me again, this time not very politely to get on with it.

Stuck between day and night, light and dark, the here and the there, the safe and the unknown, I am the mythological fallen wo-man.
The devil who was celestial for an instant and was then pushed down from the heavens.He plummeted to earth, only to be stopped by the power who had sent him to the skies in the first place.
This is me. And this time the voice will not go away. Not till I acknowledge my own significance. The roadmap to the future begins here.

(PS. This post is dedicated to Becky Walsh for that much needed push in the right direction. Thanks Becky. You can find her at www.beckywalsh.com.)

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