”Tap..tap…oops wrong key..jstor..scholar and Emily dickinson is me.’
My eyes were saturated from bouncing between Pdfs and the serene smell of scented candles that somehow I managed to keep close to my nose inches away from burning my face, but I didn’t wanted to be only a distant lover of guided lights (Miniso candles), and then in the stillness of mosquito-adorned living room of my midnight city, a thought wrote itself in my brain like disappearing texts in whatsapp, it’s intense and never meant to be written.
But my heart is like Kolkata’s winter, uncertain and brings me to songs between honeyed sunlight and dissipating patched lips like the way remnants of a time we could not reach sheds their memory away(or tears at the way we forget the monument in the confinement of history books and locks them in BBC news, Al Jazeera or what happens when the queen will die?)
In conclusion, I had a eureka moment with myself of course, that seeing this light from the candle is similar to what our news feed is, we weigh, compare and strips our heart of joy or dab our empty heart with photoshopped picture and rose tinted caucasian inspiration.
I am not ranting on against social media, but these few days when I was submerged in the pdfs, and feminine musings on Duffy, Woolf, I was exhausted, wanted to sleep. But never the screaming ‘I am missing out on life’ feeling that I get by seeing others life like a person standing in a train station, stagnant and doing nothing but watching the speeding trains tremble her insides, and filling them with longings, a longing that ceased to maintain boundaries.
Today start with holding that glittery pen between your fingers, and let that glitter spill like ganga on a rainy day, let it cover you with that special light directly into your soul.
Good night to a world that never got my letter.