Posted in Wonderers

Monochrome

“When was the last time you visited that place?”

She asked, as we made way through the narrow lane among the uprights, the wider ones with windows. The burning smell of some factory, polluting the broken air around me, shattering into bits and pieces until they become as fragile as ashes.

I looked down at my hand, as melancholy was trailing behind like a trespasser in my secret territory. With hurried footsteps I tried to keep up with her ever so curious eyes, as the lanes were filled with filth of human emotions, filth of memories unclaimed.

I was walking into the past, smelling all those homeless memories which would flourish once through the streets, through trams and double decker busses, which now face extinction in this era of shrouded reality. The dim-witted glows of the screen, stealing the present tense into a turbulent emptiness, which is calm on the outside, but slowly consumes us as its appetite on the insides.

The relationship, we share has more wavelengths between us, than actual feeling that hardly escapes our eyes, our lungs. I look at her, searching for something to say, but all I realize is how my eyes have escaped all those minute details on her face, perhaps they were glowing too brightly on the screen until now.

I could have snapped my eyes off, but I knew it was the conjunction of the past and the present and the monochrome feeling my heart was reproducing made it even harder to do so. As a result, I didn’t realize when all those filths of human emotions started blooming once again, producing black and white flowers smelling like present wrapped up in past.

I held her hand, as we peered through the old window into the British era apartment where she stayed.
The wooden windows have scrapped off at places but what has remained neatly blackened, is the engraved words, that says,
“We will never give up.”

She read aloud as I squeezed her hand. We were once again, two homeless teenagers, stubborn and fearless stepping into the future, promising each other we will make it through.

Or is it this altered present we promised?


©Jumbled Letters.