Oh cipher, my cipher

I wake up from a relatively restful slumber;

Vividly recalling that somehow, I hadn't dreamt.
Or, was it that I had but it encompassed nothing worth remembering?
Like an hourglass without sand;
A quill without ink.

I meander through empty corridors ; they're not empty, they merely seem so.
These paintings, they don't whisper to me;
They don't tell me of their origin.
They don't make me laugh until my eyes water,
And they don't elucidate how when the artist wants to depict tears of joy , he holds the brush differently;
Dilutes the colour to a different degree.
They don't tell me that this play of colour has behind it a profound science of molarity. (which too, unsurprisingly they don't explain)
They don't discuss how my innate love for art and philosophy and history is inextricable from science because although a scepter once haunted Europe and largely dissipated, a new one awaits its turn, patiently, yet certainly.

I turn to the lamp, sanguine , only to find that it's glow too has diminished.
I sigh, and look heavenward; then slowly I glance at the door , then at the clock.
As the hour hand moves sluggishly to two.
Another day , I think.
For another day the body, my body will be sans soul.
Why? Decipher this, my cipher as you have helped me decipher this world in all its gloom and glory, decipher this and you shall decipher me
-Tu me manques-

~Ananyaa Joshi