Memories Lost to Sleep from Gary Roberts on Vimeo.

Do you see? Do you see that book that's gathering dust by the shelf? The one that has got your name on it? Are you afraid to pick it up, make peace with it and listen to its stories? Perhaps you actually want the company, for the book has been waiting for you, patiently, if I may say so, for you to finally pay some degree of attention, even for a few minutes. The book, even though it has your name on it, somehow doesn't have your name in it. It's the perception of the people about you and some who've left some lasting impression on your book, through an act happy and/or sad. But today, it's another day. The dust finally seems to been making way for your fingers to grab the book, gliding over the scars of time that had, until now, hugged your book tight.

The book seems oddly heavy, like a religious textbook that your parents handed over to you, written in a language you didn't quite understand then. Their idea of the world, shaped by their parents was now being handed over to you and you had the responsibility to learn it, to embrace it, without question, assuming that whatever the book says is the truth and nothing but the truth. That it was, indeed, the book of life on which your own book shall be evaluated, once you leave this world a few decades down the line. However, unlike that book, the one which you have right now in your hands, somehow, doesn't have a place to keep it. Ofcourse the study table you so very loved and spent countless nights sitting on, thinking about the life ahead and dreaming about almost everything, isn't by your side and the home-office-table doesn't quite give your imagination any wings anymore, especially since it's used primarily to pretend to your office colleagues/friends that you are fine, that everything is fine.

So, looking at the world ravaged by a virus not seen by any of our forefathers, a world where even the gods have gone behind the doors and have closed themselves off devotees, one that makes you feel like an astronaut, drifting into your own space in your own capsule, maybe with someone, maybe all by yourself, you decide to spend the next few days/weeks reading through the book that now finally has your attention. Looking at the book atleast would give its life some meaning, unlike the hundreds and thousands of migrants who can only hope seep through the public conscience.

How are you? Do you remember me? I do. You were supposed to be my friend, as I was supposed to be yours. I stayed true to our friendship, fighting for you when they tried to dive into your secrets. You meanwhile, didn't stop them, didn't you? I guess it was then that our friendship started to fade. But, oh! well! It's time. 

I see some of the first few chapters are faded, like the labourers' plight from the public conscience who wanted to escape from the hunger, from the police lathicharge, from the city life. The pages unfade with the chapters as people show up with promises, the life away from the parents and the false-parents, the family and the false-family, the friends and the false-friends. The foes, well, they don't matter now. They are as visible as the white between the lines. 

Enough about you, even as you look for yourself in me. Why haven't you even asked about me? Are you seriously still that naive, that selfish? Aren't you going to even give a damn about my existent anymore? 

The words, they try to grab you into their world. The characters at play try to come alive in you, vehemently trying to dust off the clothes their writer chose for them. However, soon, by the end of the page, your mind is again adrift, about the time you last held the book, held on to the promise you made that you will finish more of them as time goes by, until the world of Netflix and Prime stole your attention. 

The eyes get heavy soon as suddenly, the body is physically too tired to keep up. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow, I shall see you and ask you to forgive me, and take me with you in the world I so loved getting lost.



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