On the days when I want everything to be perfect, I would not wear a shirt if it had even a single crease on it. I want the wind to be crisp enough to ruffle my hair, but not drop a strand on my eyes. It breaks the flow. The flow of perfection. I want it to rain, but the drops must fall straight upon my umbrella, and not skewed by the wind. Not a drop should wet my shirt, or my skin.
And then there are days when I gaze outside my window, at the road baked by the yawning afternoon sun, till I amble to that truck at the other side of the road. I graze my fingers over the grey layer of dust on its fuel tank, and I wonder why is it that I am obsessed with one question- How does dust smell? I know the answer, yet, I want to smell the earthen muck on its wheel. I want to puncture the fuel tank, and let diesel drip all over my body, like perfect rainfall. I drench myself, and bring home with me, a lasting smell of engine oil and dry soot.
I don’t know what it is with me. Something I detest now, may turn into an obsession even before the passage of another second. I am not who I was a moment earlier, or who I will be in the next. And all I can do to be myself, is write it out.
Artwork by unknown