It all started when the piece of wine red glass cut my vein and a million soldier ants swarmed around me.As I lay there helpless watching with a bunch of red rubber bands stuck in my throat darkness throwing its violence at me, my left hand pinned to the bed with a hundred nails, my blood oozing in fibres of gold and life-green, the glinting eyes of the mechanical purifier sucking at my blood, spitting it back into me..I breathed my last. Bubbles ran into my left hand like cosmic energy and went on to kiss my heart. It started as a convulsive pain, a twitch to begin with and moved to a pang of longing..the one I felt when I went blue and bloodless with fear as a child. When the shock of anger grabbed me with a breathless grip before I realized I was dying and a sudden rush of air burst into my lungs as wails emerged from me, tears streaming down my eyes. A helpless victimized indignance erupted in me back then. Now, only helplessness remained. The victim had even lost the qualities of remaining a victim and had turned into a boiled egg. The indignance had turned into a limp winter day biscuit. Now pain was incognito. It had become a lifestyle choice. Needles were friendly skin, vein and muscle invaders. Shame was naked as a big blue whale out in the beach. Anybody could grope on you. Someone would be weeping around you as though you were already dead. Your eyes would still watch and your head would still process laughter. Only your muscles won’t move. Tears always mingled themselves with laughter and nobody could make out the difference. When my body begged for warmth it was gifted with rigours of cold. Suddenly I would find myself between sleep and waking legs swinging up in the air, two strangers holding my head and ambiguous laughter echoing in my blood vessels. Suddenly I would be retching. I would mock at the order the world seemed to fastidiously preserve and tidiness would get covered in blood and vomit. I was on wheelchairs dizzy as a bumble bee, on stretchers with feet burning like camphor…then they threw me on to a bed of yellow sunflowers and anesthaesia and an angel called dad gifted me with the punishment of life. Now I have grown feelers of silver, infinite eyes of death have opened in me and now I realize I have travelled to another terrain. Here people mistake obnoxious fumes for fragrance and blood for water. Here they drill holes into the hands of God. People travel all day in deserts grit pricking into their toe nails and wade through radioactive slime ponds to find lotuses. I scream and scream out to them but their eyes have been hypnotized to see green. To them death is a receptacle full of monstrosities called lives. To me death is a lover. How will we ever fall into the pages of the same book? I too once was there. Now I am here. Now there is no going back. In Lethe, the river is still as a mirror. In Hades, the ferry runs one way.