Late lateef

I strutted down the familiar concrete tiles, passing familiar buildings, the expected dogs, always slightly awed at their number, until I reached the building where my Sangeet class takes place. I like dressing up but being kind of a chronic late-riser, I stepped out in the clothes that I wear at home. My wardrobe, a mess, didn't allow me to find the dress I wanted to wear either. Late again, late everytime, although I don't intend to be, and although I have said I won't be so many times. 

They have started the riyaaz and I join in, feeling sleepier than usual, but focusing, enjoying the feeling of my throat setting with the surs, and the surs coming a little more automatically, building memory in my vocal chords. I do make mistakes but eventually... it sets.

Around an hour later I am sauntering back home, my mind immersed in the song that we are preparing, my heart happy, all the worries out of the window and feeling thankful that music exists. 

Arts are my reprieve, often in the forms of singing, dancing, drawing, painting or writing, for at 22 now, I feel like a butterfly with folded up wings, in its half open cocoon, struggling to get out, spread them, fly, explore and grow, but stuck from such a long time... stuck as the child I was when I was in tenth standard, sure I have gained wisdom, my personality has developed, have learned more about myself but sometimes, I don't feel much different.