As the eagerness of returning to a familiar location reached its brink, I stepped on what seemed to be the soil of a place long forgotten. In the humid air of a night in March, I carried my belongings and subconsciously walked to my depot of transportation.
But on arriving at this depot, there seemed to be a change in the chaos that would usually embrace me as I looked the other way with the slightest bit of snobiness. Not disturbed by this slight change in proceedings, which could probably be another step towards reating the ideal world, I grab my wheels and head home. As the shimmer of the street lights light up my vehicle as it arrives on the centrestage of madness and disorientation, the lull seems to continue. It was as if my hearing abilities seemed to have been enhanced or deteriorated. Everything looked the same,smelt the same but somehow the fragment of discontent and disturbance seemed to have vanished. I raised my ears to gather the blare of a horn or the rumble of an engine but of no avail. Maybe it was the wind that was different or the time of the night was too late. But it actually remained the same as it was before. Probably I had changed.
Proceeding on through the streets of the forgotten metropolis, I glanced at the walls and faces of the millions. In the glow of the street light, I seemed to have caught the face of a woman in her late 40s holding her child as her better half drove their scooter. Making use of my ability of deduction, I deduce the age of the scooter, the cause of its dents, the price of the driver's watch the nature of the barber who cuts his hair. But what I was really interested in was what I had seen first. Surrounded in the halo of the street light that decided our fates to cross paths, was her visage with the hair on her face a little more prominent than expected. Not the hair that sprouts from your head and is a nuisance to get rid of from unwanted places, I talk about the tiny ones that are millimetres in size and almost invisible.The ones that seems invisible but are felt at the back of our neck whenever we feel the chill run down our spine. They stood as one and chose to accept me as their admirer. As I smiled at them, they waved back at me.
As they illuminated her aura that was shadowed by the smoke in the air, it seemed to be a masterpiece of sorts that was yet to be signed.
And it was in the middle of my admiration for the picture I had just captured that the baby chose to intrude and cut the strings I was attached to. A wailing cry leapt up in the air and grabbed hold of the chaos ready to erupt. And it was then that I caught a hold of my own belongings and found myself back where I belonged, the epicentre of noise and cacophony.
It was good to be home