incomplete one..

Nabokov's “dismantled moon in the courtyard” resound in my mind as the sweep of my eye is interrupted by the comma of a single white hair on the cuff of her T-shirt. A clock somewhere strikes a half hour pertaining to an unknown hour, Nabokov is haunting me today. “Gnostic turpitude”, a friend sms's helpfully to my rippled windy heart. A storm is soothsaid on my tarot card. My tired eyes rise over her bare arms to the face; a plaintive face of a teenage boy with the hint of a coming manhood. It is the nose that is impressive! An exaggerated motif on the basic canvas work by an enthusiastic artist who was keen on signing it off. It reminds me of the negroid excess of curvature in anthropological studies or maybe it is just too much of Nabokov today.

She is my friend and co-warrior, we deal with revolt during the day and reconcile to a fatalistic destiny in the evenings. She is my wife and suffice to say, my significant half.
My friends are a treasure trove that I hoard. Those nasty bunch of folks who wouldn't let me lie in my misery. My wife is my “best friend”, as I'd have loved to mention, if I was in my 2nd year in school. But we have just added three decades to the 2nd form. What is the equation one has, aspires or needs to have with one's wife?

Nietzsche mentions that marriage is a “torch to light you to loftier paths”! “Beyond thyself shalt thou build. But first of all must thou be built thyself, rectangular in body and soul”. I find him profound and unimaginative at the same time; myopic to the extent of losing the peripheral vision. Lots of depth.