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This room exits just like any other. Rooms have shapes. Shapes have Angles. Angles have Lines. Rooms have Lines too. Not so definitive ones maybe, these are transparent translucent Lines. Lines that have the tenderness to draw attention. Lines that have the magical power of forgetting the unforgettable. Lines that can be tied into a knot to keep the room together. 231Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc7dmepwuJn
231Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwxSBCzlJiu
The Stuffs? The Stuffs liked to remain scattered. It was their humane protest against the peacekeeping Lines, a free will protest to remind the Lines of their atrocities. The Stuffs couldn’t endure blows like the Lines. They were easily breakable, they were the easiest to smash. Even easier than the Ants. Ants liked to remain scattered. Scattered in small groups of Ants. A pen, a cup, a lighter, an ashtray hurriedly carrying a single grain of rice. A bin, a pamphlet, a movement, a leader, a voter, all sitting idle in a circle. A few books staging an ambush on fallen pieces of bread. A laptop, a charger, a phone, a democracy, a spyware, an autocrat keeping tabs on possible attacks from possible and impossible enemies. A pillow, a sheet, a lamp, a split end disposing of the corpse of a cockroach who would make their winter meal. A string of Stuffs can be lined up to form a trail of Ants looking for refuge. The gaps on the walls and cracks on the doors act like shelters, like caves in a mountain. Narrow, steep, dark, smelly, liveable. The Stuffs have chosen this arrangement being given no other choice by the creators. The creators of Stuffs. The creators of Ants. 231Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsHhJZ0ys8o
231Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE5v5cEqSSW
The walls look stern and burdened. Their astonishing resemblance with the owner is due to the sheer like-mindedness of the two. The walls learned to break but not to bend. The walls were pulled by the Lines, Lines that kept the room together. 231Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQtqcGkIUgN
231Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvFO3Jhc6f3
Uncle Parekh’s throat aches for some smoke as he coughs distress in harmony. His toes have turned inward and pale, like soon-to-be-torn leaves from a feeble branch. There are two different air in this room. One that he manages to inhale and exhale without much hesitation. The other that surrounds him like an illusion of grief, waiting to form tears made of moisture. This air is denser and quieter than the one keeping him alive. Much direct and obvious in delivering the message that “You’re not dead, yet; your sufferings just won’t end, yet.”
To be continued…
ns 15.158.61.23da2
