The soothsayers with their crystal balls and the tarot readers gazing at their cards, are irrelevant here.
Even the weatherman has realised the futility of his gauges and barometer.
The famine of hope being seasonal like the monsoon,
Brings in the need to feign plenitude to cover up for paucity.
Rendering the institutionalised apparatus of hoarding, an indispensable skill.
Hoarding for the cold winter.
Hoarding for the bloody spring.
Hoarding for some viral invasion, anew.
Hoarding groceries along with worries and pain and guilt.
Hoarding good memories to live through tough times.
Hoarding the unfinished work-in-progress of dreams.
Hoarding courage to carry the carcasses of being.
Hoarding relics of life to handle the crossover with death.
These reserves of, overwhelming fear, blood curdling resentment,
milk fermented by the sourness of hearts,
left over bread of yesterday which just couldn’t be gulped down,
pots of tea still brewing with anger,
drugs to bring on bouts of apathy,
buckets of slime, stress balls and fidget spinners for the more cautious,
all become inventories in – The Warehouse of Rage.
In the cold storage, rage remains rage.
Sometimes processed into numbness. Sometime action.
Sometimes death. Sometimes the living dead.
I come from the picturesque valley of Kashmir, a place torn between heaven and hell. Apart from being a sociology student, I am a solitude loving, old school, book hoarder who has had an infallible, effervescent, life long union with books. I am currently taking baby steps at writing.