City of stars.
It’s a murky blue.
I assume it’s a blue.
Stroke one. Stroke three. And then then finally the light from the stick goes out.
Reality? It’s just a grey. If you stare hard enough, there probably is a star.
It’s not shining bright. The stick. Fifteen INR. That’s what shines bright. And at the fifth graze against the window sill, it goes out.
You hit your head hard against the bed stand. You find the head rest. And that’s that. The fingers numb. Reality wheeling. Doesn’t help. So what if you reach the summit with pants and huffs. So what if it doesn’t heighten your senses. So what if you have to sit down just to hear yourself pant or after a night of Hit or Bira.
Validation. That’s just a safe word for your safe space. Nothing grows in the comfort zone, I hear. Petty first world problems. The same as privilege?
No there are no stars. And yes. You’re an erupting weed in a safe space.