fake plastic trees....

if life had been just the same.... trees that don't really fall. windows that aren't really broken. leaves that are no longer blown. magic that never gets lost..... the blood was ligther i guess. n’ i never really knew how the density increased eventually when my reports said my haemoglobin was sinkin’ below normal. but that’s not the point. the point is.... what made it feel so heavy. for then i started to feel all so very strongly that everythin’ else was pilin’ up inside me. i was partially scared to cut myself the other day. i didn’t want to. probably an ode to my “logical” side. i found it funny though i thought about it. i wanted to let it out.

the worst part of forgettin’ things isn’t really the forgettin’ part but not at all realizin’ what is forgotten. i mean just a thought. probably things would have been atleast somewhat better if not perfectly figured out. when you knew exactly what you forgot. but it doesn’t happen. but the worst part of rememberin’ is that you remember it all the time till you forget it. n’ you possibly remember nothin’ more.

n’ when i tried to get hold of what had happened.... i just couldn’t remember what did i forget. but all i got were snapshots of 400 days as if that was the only part n’ everythin’ else was not even vague but complete blank. i could only remember the torn out pieces of the thermocol which comes out in small spheres. those were probably my dolls. paper rings which break up so easily starts flyin’ in the night sky.... n’ i went on growin’ those fake plastic trees hopin’ for a bud not only to show up but also to blossom. i wonder how did i do it... but i did.

with just a hopeless hope for 1 day which bears the power of makin’ me forget all those 400 days.... forgettin’ in the way that you don’t even remember what you forgot. do fake plastic trees even grow.... let alone bloomin’ flowers! are paper rings worn on the fingers?

       

it’s not how much more i’ve paid for all i forgot or remembered than the other.... but it’s the temporary phase in which i remain has made me immensely poor for what i remember i forget sometime later n’ what i forget i remember again. it’s the price of my poetic memory i’ve paid more than often which has mainly succeeded in renderin’ me into a man of timeless debts.

       

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