Remember me? Whispered my surgeon slowly…
It was meant to be a lunchbox but only held sea shells. Every holiday, every cousin, every friend and family outing- you go to the beach of course.
A natural tendency; geography ruling people. We never left till sunset, poor lighting makes for bad pickings but makes your haul look great. Maybe you need exhaustion to appreciate sea shells, possibly reaching unconscious poetry collecting the remnants of the dead while the sun sets before an endless ocean. A treasure chest was an inevitable requirement.
Somehow the shells kept piling on, I kept them meticulously, neatly while my cousins threw them away. Where? They could not remember. The box grew heavy, the shells broke under their own weight, faded and rotted away. I would hesitate to open the box anyway, I don’t know why.
Now and then I had to open it, sand always got out, where did it all come from? I lost the box and memory of where it went long ago, and I live far away. Still the smell of the sea always remained in my memory and the box while the shells decayed.
Caught in a whirlwind, location unknown.
I, an accomplished thief, do not steal because I greed, or envy the men behind their walls or fine fabrics. I steal because it makes for good story telling.
I trespass on principle. And of course on great and virtuous aims.
My job is to rescue. I enter homes, battle great gaurdian demons of suspicion, and seduce vaults to save defenseless gems from their imprisonment. Their lives, henceforth, of fast hands and shadowed passage make for far more fitting tales for such prizes.
Every stone valued behind some hero’s quest to retrieve them. Every rock growing more coveted once it’s gone, holding their masters in an unbreakable grip that men may only dream of.
“Seek psychiatric help” my microwave replied.
“History will remember me” -author unknown.
It was cold like a night under storm clouds, near farmland and distant houses you could hear over crickets. But this was far from home, far from the insect life and green walls.
The bus stations was not a place to find populated at so late an hour. She was not at fault here. It was the hooded figure who had decided to ruin all calculations, to make it’s presence felt. Mist seemed to rise off the signboard at the bus stop. It advertised some trifling vulgarity punctuate with a smile. She offered it no thought but wondered at the figure who leant on it- hoping to slip through into serendipity perhaps.
While the figure consumed the advertising, she wondered at every breeze that rushed past. The breeze carried no zooming swish of wind, no passengers in a hurry. Why would empty breeze carry itself so quickly? Does a city seep into the the air so easily?
Of course no bus would arrive at this hour. Both of them knew that. They were boxed in close- city lights in every direction. Lights that suggested the world wasn’t dead, but showed no signs of life itself. The city grows sinister in its stillness, its emptiness, keeps you on the edge waiting for movement taunting you with none. She found it reassuring at least that there was a waiting companion, heading the same way into nowhere.
Mist rose out of her breath till it blinded her. Enveloped like the figure at the sign board she tried calling out to it. Her words dissolved like mist, she stays still, and her sight and form did obscure into silence.
A moth seeks the moon
Navigates the bulb
His obliviousness and my gloom.
We are a family of collectors. We have diverse interests and collect many things- perfume bottles, magazines from the soviet union, yellow pages for cities that don’t exist anymore. Even seeds. In the summer we often catch fireflies and lost flowers. The flies are pinned up in memories, the flowers in books- so many of them. All for a personal library that began decades ago. Yellow books that’ll never be used, no one can write over flowers and perfumed paper.
So much for memories I guess, but you won’t me writing on those pages either.
You’re a receding pinpoint of memory
My reflection blinks when I stare
Loves being alone, hates the loneliness.