Boxes.
That's where I put them all.
Memories. People. Feelings. All of it.
Boxes in hidden places.
Chancing upon them from time to time when I try to look for lost things.
Bumping into some when I am a little lost.
Logic. Practicality. Blood routines. Duties.
The festivities keep getting louder.
I lost my spects on the crowded train today.
Helplessness had never felt this real before.
Is it true that you can't hear well without glasses? Happens to me.
As the din got louder around me, I started to fade.
The colours started to mingle like in that of an oil canvas.
The cacophony drowned my senses.
The whistle of the old kettle brought me back to today.
The maid threw me a searching look.
I tried hard to recover my composure.
That's the thing bout boxes.
They keep turning up in unwanted places at odd hours.
The racket outside the kitchen windows announce the arrival of the deity in the pandal.
Festivities again.
This time I'll cover the boxes in shiny red paper I promise myself.
I'd stopped wearing glasses a long time back.
The colours are well defined now.
Black and white.
Reds are reserved only for the boxes.
#reverie
From the archives of 2019
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