Memory Hoarder

These objects, things in my room…. I see them and touch them, my friends come here, they sit on the floor, on the arched sofa with the cushion in their hands, with cha-cups everywhere…

I pass nights after nights wide eyed asking for sleep to the nihilistic writers. I die sometimes here just to find out that there’s been a huge misunderstanding…Life isn’t that precious and you can give up if you want to.

These objects in my room, I see them and touch them, and just like that, pieces of my life get stuck in them. I touch the half torn net hanging outside my window and breathe….

And when they ask, what is life to you?
I say,
— To me?
Memories.

I collect memories. And I store them. In these objects that you see, there are memories in them. Stuck inside that broken statute of Arunmila, pages of that Arundhuti Roy’s book, rhythms of Ginsberg’s poetry. Memories are hanging out in the corners of the ceiling and on the quiet nights if you listen real hard,
you will hear them whisper.

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