Textling #45

One hot summer’s day a few years back I ventured past the silver birch, long-haired border-post and footfall-scorer. No better fuel than heat! Propulsion and pacing had ceremonial gravity. I stopped frequently, sat on fences, walls, and parapets; savoured the air’s stillness once the wheezing stopped. Up again and onwards, teetering with intent, and not adverse to feckless frolics around random spots. Remembrance is eminently visual, and indistinct, as if I were a figure caught on reels of scratched, overexposed film. Sprocket holes ticker, and white lines flicker like tinsel hanging from the sky.

When fatigue does its worst memory becomes a draw-well. I’m done looking back (she writes) or too far ahead (waiting to reignite). New digs in the present! Casualties haunt though: plans abandoned, fortunes ousted, friendships lost or never formed – jaunty spectres hard on my heels, eating the dust my tired in-house strides stir up. Cut.


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