The dust does little harm now

I love words. I can’t remember them. I thought I would buy a car. I wouldn’t buy one. I told her I wanted to stay single. We talk daily like couples. I don’t watch TV. The TV watches me. If deadlines were on a cricket-pitch I would have been a popular no-bowler (not the best though). I love preaching anger management. I get angry. The past is dead and buried. It haunts me on lonely nights. Bites like a snake. Non-venomous – for I am alive.

The dust that is there. Everywhere. Grey. White. Misty. Choking. Polluting. Eye-hurting. Irritating. I have a hanky. I have made triangles out of them and covered my nose and my mouth. I have big goggles. I have put them over my eyes. The dust does little harm now. But I hear the flying, wafting, humming particles laugh at me sometimes. They know the cloth is going to go away. And so are the shades. But I pretend I don”t hear them laugh. May be I don’t. I pretend my eyes never get moist. May be they don’t. I know I am alive. May be I am not.