alone one afternoon

Sometimes, the pangs come to my unfurnished mind pricking, poking, nagging, imploring and what-not on sunny afternoons wanting a better cover, a mask to thrive behind, to dwell, and to consume slowly like sipping tea, the mind first, the heart, soul and even my body later. Every pang brings with it a soft thud that does ripple to the heart and then the veins till I could feel it in the tips of my fingers and toes and see the silhouette of my soul move with the gushing blood; all of a sudden, I am lighter, I fly and flow, and in love my body and heart skips about in sheer ecstasy in a jocund world of endless dreams and star-dusted skies as I dance and dance and dance swaying and swirling in a trance, until the dying but still sly prudence, gasping at some distant nook of my numb brain sends desperate calls to a bunch of dreamily conscious cells of my body which wakes me up from the blissfully dazed and intense slumber into painted paradise to a hot noon and a smelly cup of not-so-hot mess tea. And I frown.