So, this one’s about losing touch. Losing touch of time. Losing touch of space. Losing touch of everything in between.
It has been an awful long time since I last wrote, so I have probably lost touch with how to write. Or the idea of an audience, a destination for my thoughts. This one’s about losing touch with my audience.
It has been a long time since I took stock of my roots. A long time since I looked back to where I have come from. This one’s about losing touch of my roots.
A quaint little evening, with a faint smell of happiness in the air, an imminent festivity and not so imminent chill of autumn. A silence that is on the surface, with the noise of restlessness inside, every pair of eyes I look into. This one’s about that silence on the surface.
A city of rotten dreams, dreams of fancy cars shriveled into a rickshaw seat, dreams of 70 mm shrunk into an idiot box, dreams of palaces stinking next to the gutter on the footpath, dreams of happiness pretending to exist in the eyes of unwanted offspring. The city of dreams. Stale dreams, stinking dreams, shriveled and shrunk dreams. This one’s about this city and dreams.
The hurry that knocks you off your feet. The rhythm that’s beating in your head, propelling you forward without letting you wait to take stock. The breakneck speed that gives you no time to breathe. No time to hold onto those happy moments that made up of all your memories. Just because you got the time to hold onto them. No time to look back to your roots. No time to write. This one’s about the rush that makes you lose touch of time and space. And so, this one’s about losing touch.
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