Memories

My memories caught my hand cajoling me

To visit a treasure trove

My museum of memories

And musings

Where none other has ever treaded

Neither sun nor moon

Neither wind nor monsoon

Neither midnight nor noon

Some would make me jump some swoon

Some bane some boon

Some show me as a heroine some cartoon

Some I love as they are pure and pristine

But some I would edit and prune

I’m not fifty eight

But like Abhimanyu my memories are older than fifty nine

When I peep in

Magic transforms me to the phase I look at

I become what I see

I live what I see

Though a translucent veil obscures my vision

Some details I miss

Some voices are faint

I see and feel

But cannot hold

Sometimes I like to see frame by frame

Sometimes run like a film

Colors have dulled as if in the hands of a harsh washer man

This is perhaps my training

To learn to spend my time

Without any external inputs

Without any devices and applications

To fill my lonely hours

With joy

Transcended from the years which were bliss