By Chhaya Dabas
I fear I will forget the moments that now string together on my wall-
Polaroids cut to perfection, emulating the moulds that I resemble in those captures, melting into abstract forms as various seasons pass and leave me wet, perspiring, fidgety and forlorn.
I fear that the mirror, mirror on the wall, that till today feeds on appearances and disappearances, calculating its move and manner to please and appease a heart so weak, will one day show introspections than mere reflections.
I fear that one day, I will cover my identity as people see me, and acquire a name that will lead to a masked fame, and people will forget I exist behind, the mask and will I ever be able to remove it then?
Fear is a blue sky with speckled clouds, reminding you that hallucinations weren’t rainbows but spots that often crept on your screens and as much as you wiped them, turned into the sky grey. And then before you know, it began to pour. Cats, dogs, dandelions, stars, tears and you eventually forgot the count.
Fear is the fear to forget that one day the hand might come down and you will have to stare back at the empty, spotted sky. Fear is to forget the stiffness in your face in shifting the hand to be able to squint your eyes.
Fear is senseless banter that begs to make sense. Fear is the death of sound in a drowning, deafening room.