Post number one hundred and seventy seven.

I loved stargazing. Looking up at the inky black horizon. Gazing at the little glowing flecks of hope that twinkle so merry. Joining them with imaginary lines. Joining the stars. Easy swift movements of comfort. And in the cities, where there are no stars to be seen, there is just a glowing film of pollution. Of dust and smoke and human toil. The sky is not inky black. It is a strange shade of mixed colors. Orange from the lights, and black from the universe. And I still love it.

Sometimes at work, during brief moments of relentless exhaustion, I look up and stop short. I stop short to gaze at the beauty and vastness of it all. The sky changes its character with every hour of the day. Many a times, I have noticed vultures circling around against the milky blue of a sky at dusk. Vultures making merry. Flying about. Celebrating their mighty and pompous wings. Shrieking with joy. Their shrill laughter against the softness of clouds.

And later at night I used to prop myself up on the windowsill. My mind flapping about in a haze of smoke. My eyes red with the dope and the tears. The sky would be a velvety black. The clouds all mighty and gregarious. Prepared to burst forth. The wind making them restless beyond repair. And suddenly from amidst layers of silky angry clouds, would emerge a pale yellow imperfect round shape. The moon. Haggard. Beaten. Withered. But shining still. Fighting the clouds.