He.

It doesn’t end, does it? A war in itself. In one’s self.

Opened his eyes,closed them again, blinded by the sudden brightness he was exposed to, and wished his dream,his lovely dream with his girl by his side all the time,would go on for some more time.Head splitting of last night's hangover, disturbed by his last night's argument, he wakes up.Walks to the mirror, his face in a mess, mess made by all the delay he had done in his life, for which he was repenting now.

He picked up his toothbrush , brushing aside his thoughts,with its to and fro motion,letting in new ones, washing away the froth on his mouth, organizing them for the clock to strike the right time. Hoping the clock adds second upon second, without having to go back, to reframe the past, without the foul smell of decay of the past.Bewildered by his lonely present,he was looking for a pleasant future.

The glass was left in its half. He drank half of it that quenched his thirst. With the thud of the glass,he heavily put on the table, he watched the ripples on the surface dying with time. He tapped it a little again and watched the process, again and again. Half full or half empty, the essence is the same.(This reminds him,again of the song  Tu Bole Glass Aadha Khaali, Main Bolu Aadha Bhara, from Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na).For him, it was how much was drunk and how much is left.

His shirt wet by a drop of sweat,he left it to itself. It would cool down slower by the cloth in his pocket. The longer it stays, the longer it is exposed to air, the longer he could feel the effect of evaporation. Perspiration cools me down, he thought.Tired, he flicks open his pack of cigarettes,puts one between his lips, to make his life shorter by an hour.Lights a match,circles his palm around the match.The wind seems to be too strong.The match is put off.Lights another one,this time being more careful with his palm, he lights his cigarette. With a deep puff, the ash leaves the cigarette for the floor.Looking at it, he is reminded of something,something that left his life.

He talked to his friend over the phone. He gazed more at the shining stars he was making in his mind, on his ceiling than he spoke to her,there weren't any stars.He was imagining things. The tick of the clock that counted his day constantly faded every word he spoke.Pushed a few more buttons,he was frantically texting. But when the tired mind overcame the rush of thoughts that were flooding his tired brain,tired of sad thoughts, the eye went to join lids.

Six hours hence, he reopened his eye to brush, to tap the glass, to sweat and to talk,to text.

When days tick around in equilibrium,revolving around the same things everyday,the change appears as a distant black dot.

Contemplating on what he had done, the thought made a visit to his mind.With a different stroke he made, had his teeth been whiter?Would his body toxins plaguing his mind find an exit in the full glass of water?Questioning himself on these, he thought of calling his friend for an answer.Had I listened you with intent,would you have been with me?Or staring at the stars of nothing, would I seek answers to my past?

The war in his mind brings in potential signs of loss.Loss of oneness,loss of what he might have done or he might have done to someone. The big black dot far away might pick pace,but again comes back in a full circle. But,his girl will not,and his war goes on.


Here,I am the He.Any one of  you could be the He. Could be anyone.