Someone spells me out of scribbled letters,
The blotted papers of yellowing memories
Cringe in an autumn humid afternoon.
I hear my name, I hear the clink of words in abstraction,
I nod in despair: Twice.
A sea of memories plunge out of those yellowing letters.
I pull my scarf out in the wind,
It's fragrance makes my heart flutter
I tie it in loops over my head
Concealed and secure
I let loose those blotted papers
Those ink stained letters do know
Who I am, don't they?
"Read between the lines", I heard our professor say. We were in midst of a Victorian text. I looked at her point blank. She had spoken about something which I had no clue about. "Ma'am, would you please elaborate? ", I tried framing this sentence in my mind but my introverted self overpowered my inquisitive soul like everytime. I hopelessly waited for an explanation. Ma'am started explaining about how beyond the surface meaning of any written text, there lay a wide plethora of meaning which wasn't explicitly stated. She talked about finding a void between the written words and our imagination, that void which shapes our interpretation. That explanation opened doors to my perception of reading a text. It wasn't that I had never considered about the possibilities of meanings that lay coated in words until then, but, what perhaps I lacked was to look for that void where I questioned the layers of meaning, where I put myself in those layers of wo...
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