a blur of old cache.

The night is a storm. Rain pounds hard while you are walking down the street dripping wet, and happy. You can’t care enough to shelter yourself because you like it, how the rainwater infiltrates you, engulfs every bit of your everything, swallows you whole, dismantles all-things-neat-and-perfect, renders them a funny, soaking mess. How fucked-up! How freaking beautiful.

Just 10 minutes into the walk and visibility is rendered almost non-existent. The specs! Water streaks down their glass, blurring everything in your view. Colours flood into each other and the road turns into a mirror, reflecting back everything and everyone whizzing over it in the immersive downpour. You stop for a moment and squeeze in beneath the tarp of a small streetside shop for a while. Your fingers, damp and numb with cold, raid the insides of your bag for the half-nibbled chocolate piece thrown in almost an hour ago. Scouring the place for autorickshaws can wait. You don’t know anymore, whether to call it an emotional calamity or a case of priorities fucked up real bad.

He blinks at the back of your head. He still blinks at the back of your head.

You clasp your bag harder and spend the rest of the walk chasing the moon back home.


2 thoughts on “a blur of old cache.

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