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  • Sanvari Malik


I try to dodge certain things these days. Not funnily. With a sense of actual strength. I feel strong when I dodge them. Or I shatter. There is no in-between. I shatter with an enormous sigh; a sigh so deep that I feel my lungs; that I feel a shivering, a low hum. Sometimes I spend hours just dodging. There is no harm in dodging and doing mindless things, like watching something or walking or working hard at a job you have no intention of keeping or have no intention of building a career out of. And then I try to dodge certain songs. They thrash you out of your dodgy state of mind. Brutally!

But you know what? It has meaning in it. The trashing, the non-dodgy state of mind. Its 30 minutes is more meaningful than a week of mindless things combined.

This is one of those of those songs for me.

It is beautiful. I know. But when I found this song to be beautiful was a time when I found a lot of things beautiful. So it made me count the beautiful in my life; every time. (I can't seem to find the strength to address the elephant in the room. It is so heavy that I can't just weigh it off of me. )

One of things went missing and I can't seem to see the other pretty things anymore. Because it mattered. It mattered. Even if I couldn't have kept it in my life to see, be with. The mere existence of it kept me anchored like a paperweight. And now I feel all over the place.

Because it vanished, left no trace. Nothing at all. If you could roam the whole earth and try to find it, nothing. You can wear yourself out, spend every penny, give your everything but no. You won't find it. It is so sad and so unfair and makes little sense.

So, I am all over the place. I feel like it's windy, even inside of my room and like a big heap of pages, I am everywhere. I constantly find myself in different places inside of my room. Always moving.

I don't know if I am supposed to find a way to stop the air or to find an anchor. Another one. But nothing like the one I had then. There is no comparison. But it sounds like a comparison, even to me. So I am not finding an anchor. I rather shove them away and out of my windows.

Second, I hate depending. So I am not depending on the wind to stop.

Or I have the option of getting used to the wind. Find a sense of adrenaline in the worst of the corners of my room. I see hope in this. I think I will be stronger this way. Wind won't bother me as much as it is bothering me now. Right? What's the harm?

It is just that it's changing me. I am not the same pile of pages which made sense together. I still make sense, but someone coming in will have to really try to pick up everything and make a sense of the chronology; read the last lines and match them with the firsts of each page. It is a task. I have become a task. I have developed strange colours on me. Half of me meets the sun, half of me is damp in the darker corners of the room. I wonder if I am still readable. Or if I would still be readable.



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