A thousand tiny drops splatter on my concrete wall
My eyes identify the sight but my ears feel deceived
I close my eyes and let those drops sink in
I see a girl making paper boats
Her face all bright and lit up
The sound of Boroxun splattering in the tin roofs
Is what makes it alive for her
She colours her boat green out of crayon stubs
She gives a thought and attaches a red flag,
An anchor of hope
And off she runs to a puddle to let it free
The boat glides, Boroxun ceases,
Life happens and the boat is led adrift.
I sense a chill in the humid afternoon,
I open my eyes to face a concrete wall
"It's raining", I tell myself
I close my windows, set my tea to boil,
Put my ear plugs on,
I can't bear the dull thuds of rain on the damp walls
It doesn't sing to me like Boroxun does.
"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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