So, I packed my home in boxes. Each one is named after its tale of origin.
One - Clothes
Sarees, Dresses, Pants. Socks. Skin.
Two - Literature
Medical books. Novels. Diaries. Love letters.
Three - Accomplishments
Trophies. Medals. Failures. Certificates of Merits and Meltdowns.
Four - Gifts
Rainbow-hungry disappointments. Death that has already happened.
The truck leaves with my present tense, past tense, and past participle, all neatly packed in boxes.
The truck departs
and I and my oblivion talk with our gaping mouths about emptiness,
that's slowly sinking in while the sky begins to fall with its heaviness.
We sit with our saplings of uncertainty and courage.
I don't breathe, but I don't die either.
The ghost of my heart still resides in that room.
In the empty drawers,
and little pieces of art that I left behind to welcome someone else.
With a prefix of 'love' and a suffix of 'good wishes'.
I looked at my home one last time,
where I learned of my voice rather than just a whisper.
Where I saw dandelion seeds
merge into the winds for the first time.
Where I learned about the many ways to die and to live.
This is where my ink made love with the crumbled papers
and this is where I stood and rehearsed my lines before any stage performance
and all of this was just the wet fish I was trying to hold on to.
Every time I hear of people moving houses I hear the zipping of emotions with every packet. Putting down the curtains along with their agnostic selves, wanting to believe there's more to life. Closets turning to graveyards. And you continue with Newton's laws of motion.
Finally, closing the doors and locking them, heart valves.
I lie on that bed one last time, with no sheets of desire
but on the wooden ply of reality.
Hard. All of this was.
My eyes welled up and camped under my metaphors. My stomach pained as I tried to force a battery-operated smile. I ate Dosa and sambar that day before leaving home, my comfort food, in my comfort place.
You see, moving has nothing to do with demography,
It has to do with the Anatomy of your home.
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