Just like last morning.

The mind wakes up to a surreal morning, angry remnants of desired conclusions bustling in a hurry over the caffeine of last night's sleep. The yellow morning should have been pleasant, but the pupil only adjusts and readjusts itself to see clearly despite the painfully throbbing window panes of the mind's eye. Lips half opened, close into a pursed defense when the dizziness increases, palms shoot up to comfort the face with familiar lines and own skin, but the series of dreams left the mind agitated, the body at unease, and the hair uncombed and thoughts just as riddled as the knots that would be later tugged on with the green comb.
The anxious shoulders work up the courage to move, the body shifts places and travels to the colder region of the bed, to get rid of the warmth of the place where the body slept for eleven hours and the place that felt like a recently exhausted engine of an old angry truck. Focus zeroes down to the small tattoo of the dragonfly on the ankle, and slowly the five senses regain and recollect the origin of the body. The sixth sense hushes down the constant nervous yelps booming in the speakers somewhere far away, within the soul perhaps?
The day compliments itself with the whistles of the iron boy, skipping and hopping to the neighborhood households to carry away crushed white shirts and bring them back crisp by the evening for another day of 9-5 slave hours for the guy next door with brown polished boots and the corporate car.
The cat purred in its sleep beside..The world was slowly making sense.
Water!, the tongue rebels. As the Adam's apple is bathed with the cold noble liquid, courtesies the refrigerator, the body subsides to the calm, the quiet, and understands again, just like last morning, who it was, what it does, and where it belongs. 

Courtesy- NILADRI BHATTACHARJEE.

-Nil.