I realise we've never been there to begin with.
We've never had those moments of silences with spaces in between to sit back and think of where we are.
Where are we?
Maybe it's the tea that's brought us this far,
With it's flavours that intoxicated us with child like passions to grow up.
I close my eyes for a sip and open it a second later and we have moved this far.
I switch on the TV in the rain and
Memories of the old antenna in the terrace that my grandfather painfully shifted to one side and the other to let the colours burst into the Tv come flooding into my mind. Now there's just the rust, and on an occasion or two,
Those crows perch on it in waiting.
And when it's time maybe we'll sell it to the ragpicker , for him to break it into fragments of metal. Old things. Misfits.
Maybe it's just the rains that bring back those smells which comfort and haunt in confusing matrices. The sound of fried fish burning in hot oil every afternoon and the smell of the sea that occasional winds bring with it. And then, bare feet on wet moss.
Maybe we haven't yet started.
The candles that were kept ready for power cuts every night after dinner, when the jars stacked with chips and chocolates on top of the fridge near the red stabilizer, would come down and call me towards it. And while mosquitoes fly around, we'd move around, at warfront with the air.
It must be the tea that brought us this far.
But in those odd moments where life pauses like watches with paralysed hands,
It feels like we've stayed all the way.
Maybe that's how it's meant to be.
More tea?
We've never had those moments of silences with spaces in between to sit back and think of where we are.
Where are we?
Maybe it's the tea that's brought us this far,
With it's flavours that intoxicated us with child like passions to grow up.
I close my eyes for a sip and open it a second later and we have moved this far.
I switch on the TV in the rain and
Memories of the old antenna in the terrace that my grandfather painfully shifted to one side and the other to let the colours burst into the Tv come flooding into my mind. Now there's just the rust, and on an occasion or two,
Those crows perch on it in waiting.
And when it's time maybe we'll sell it to the ragpicker , for him to break it into fragments of metal. Old things. Misfits.
Maybe it's just the rains that bring back those smells which comfort and haunt in confusing matrices. The sound of fried fish burning in hot oil every afternoon and the smell of the sea that occasional winds bring with it. And then, bare feet on wet moss.
Maybe we haven't yet started.
The candles that were kept ready for power cuts every night after dinner, when the jars stacked with chips and chocolates on top of the fridge near the red stabilizer, would come down and call me towards it. And while mosquitoes fly around, we'd move around, at warfront with the air.
It must be the tea that brought us this far.
But in those odd moments where life pauses like watches with paralysed hands,
It feels like we've stayed all the way.
Maybe that's how it's meant to be.
More tea?
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