There is something about these afternoons that makes me lie down thoughtless and watch shadows of clouds and spots of sunlight shimmering like stars on the concrete floor of my room. That stone cold ethereal world of light and dark, a translucent festival of silence, bursts into the room through the window, daring the stained lace curtains. It rushes through their partings, more vivid with every passing second; stealing shapes and flinging them at walls in shades of soft grey and dark grey; placing distorted cats hanging by their whiskers from the ceiling and elongated branches with brilliant, shivering leaves along the floor and clawing at the walls. At the far end of this large but almost empty room it all fades and blurs into a steadily growing darkness around my nest of blankets, cushions and unwashed clothes, with its rim of half finished paintings and empty green beer bottles. There are crumpled sheets of abandoned poetry peppered with cigarette butts. A bunch of painted canvas, testimony to more productive streaks of nocturnal ramblings are placed against the wall. Halfway between the mattress and the bathroom door on the left wall, an easel holds up a large white canvas. There is a round table with three legs remaining, whose original white top is long lost under multicouloured paint splatters, brushes, charcoal sticks, a thousand and one paint tubes, bottles of varnish and turpentine, a much used palette, a burnt out candle, chocolate wrappers and an old record player, all under a thin coat of dust. There are books scattered everywhere, or shadows of them at least. Dust rises like volcanic eruptions from their pages and covers swirling into cones of sunlight. How long have I been here, unblinking, still?
This is the story of Sumit. Sumit alive.
Sumit is slow motion sinking into an ocean of evening stars, circled by mad comets whizzing past him from eternity to eternity as bubbles arise bursting and digging into crystallized memories of laughter that echo a thousandfold into infinty. A screeching, soft but growing. It rushes, rushes, rushes and washes over him and into him, cold down his spine, steaming through his skull. He explodes for five minutes and then everything is black and quiet like a white dwarf.