Sellophane

He felt like a new man. A brand new man, squeaky clean. Each part of him fresh and clean with the kind of cleaniness that no amount of polishing can endow in something old. No, he definitely felt new. More alive in a way.

Maybe it was the way the sun was carving it's way through the cloud early in the morning before the oppressive heat gets to you. Maybe it's way the tendrils of steam slither their way up from his cup of morning coffee to greet him. There was just something that he couldn't really put his finger on.

It's all different now. His words no longer scribble and tremble with an unacknowledged sense of hopelessness. Neither do they overflow with the gushing, diabetic, pink happiness that bollywood prophesises and is normally associated with the first person. His words, they seem to have found themselves, just like what he would like to think...He had done.

It had rained the night before. He had watched as he lay on his bed, the water as it mingled with the rays of the incandescent streetlight, forming a glorious shower of diamonds. The morning smelled of rain; As he twirled his finger absent-mindedly and sipped his coffee. He realized that he was alive.

He was alive, bursting with things he wanted to do. Desires that he must fulfill, things to experience, places to explore. He was alive and there was so little time and so much to do.

The phone rang, (breaking the far away soft hue of the radiohead song playing in his room in the other side of the house) he was glad.