Unprecedented insomnia persists, as news of one of the worst civilian casualty in recent bomb blast filters in.
Its on the radio, on the television! Only this time I can’t listen and watch with disinterested shock, or tutt at the inhumanity of suicide bombers…
This time I cringe at the thought of the bus ride I had earlier in the day from the British council library...
Its dark out, I ignore the thought for a while and listen to the howling of the neighbors' numerous dogs; perhaps they can smell the blood...perharps they see the ghosts of the restless spirits so suddenly torn from their bodies.
Morbid thoughts continue!
Bombblast @Piliyandala, a suburbarn town twelve Kilometers from the capital city of Srilanka...16 dead over 40 injured the news says...
But listen closely and you'll hear the husband crippled, the son killed...listen a little closer and you'll hear the wailing for a daughter lost, or a mother gone!
The bomb is planted on a bus, set to explode in the busiest hour of traffick, about 7pm. A time of day when tired bodies packed in slow buses shuttle home from the day's labor.
Daylight slowly dawns, Yasunari Kabawata's poignant tale of love and loss begin my day, words dance in my head as he paints a melancholic picture of Beauty and Sadness. The true life tale of the tragic end of this 1968 Nobel Prize Winner For literature stated bluntly..."Kabawata was found dead,by his own hand,in 1972"....awaken a primal fear in me.
Its morning, little cherubs stir in rumpled sheets,the sounds of a child's laughter echo so loudly as he climbs down the stairs, the sound seems sureal, his passing by my door step!