In tiny specks of microscopic waste that had collected over the years. That tickled my nose and caught up in my throat, that poked at my eyes drawing tears and settled on my skin. Although, they all would be washed away within hours of putting away the book.
What is it about memories that reside in objects? They always seem to be so much more powerful. Putting you off something, or leaving you with an uncanny obsession. Sometimes, the lack of an object allows the memory to disintegrate too.
And so all the movies tell you to burn the pages and flush them down. Find a new book, write a new story. Burn that too. Almost like leading a nomadic emotional life. Carrying bare essentials, and leaving behind everything that belongs to a place – even ruin it.
But sometimes, you spend too long and smile too hard and it becomes unacceptable to let that memory disintegrate, for you would too with it. So you save every little chit – crumpled, torn, incomplete as it may be. You stash it away till it changes as a new layer of dust forms on it, and the links to it weaken, until one day you see it, and it is remembered, and forgotten again. Or. You hold onto it tightly every single day, till it vanishes in your own palm, with the smothering leaving an imprint you refuse to wash away.
Acceptance, denial and obsession.
Articulation is quite crucial. Or would it make any difference at all?
© Drishti Soni 2017. All Rights Reserved.