“To the egg only one thing mattered – what it told the big, black, dilly dally sky. The sky was the most magnificent thing it had ever seen. And though the egg knew it was going to crack soon, it somehow comforted itself that the cold blanket of this dark paradise was enough. The egg knew that its death would always come as a foul stench, with it breaking into deep ridges. It had been informed that there was something growing inside it. Something big, something translucent. Something that was magic yet cancer. This thing grew on its own and was *alive*. For the egg who was just a crisp white layer, this thing growing inside it felt like a voluptuous ball of life and inferno. Somedays, when it was frustrated, it asked the sky whether dying for this yellow ball was worth it. The sky never replied. It only flirted through light drizzle and cockeyed winks – the clouds always so brilliantly conveying its rapturous decisions. The egg always waiting for an answer grew jealous of the sun’s flamboyance and the moon’s mysticism. The egg was paranoid and was beginning to assume that the sky was not only in love with these two aerial objects, but also, cheating on one with the other. The abrupt echoes of his mind wouldn’t shut up until one day when he felt a split in him. It was delicate at first, and then like an earthquake. It tore him apart to set him free. Yet, he didn’t feel any of it. In the evening, when the farmer’s daughter required these pieces for a ‘best out of waste’ contest, the leftover pieces of his shell were cleaned up. She dug her hands through his remains and dipped his skin in glue, sticking him to the crumpled cardboard.
In the silence of the night, though the egg dead – began to acquire the most soothing solace of all time. Its cracked parts began to wonder why.Little did he know that, she had made clouds from his remains and stuck them to her model of the big, black, dark sky.
Everything is always so close, yet so far, eh?”