Sitting atop the cultural summit of the epoch, I sneezed
into the ethos of the oval foyer and thus began my stunning
decline. On my head strap was mounted a GoPro. I cherished
my third eye’s vision. The sack of bones I descended from
enjoyed descents, pulled downstream or carried windward
like love swaying on a shed leaf midair or the body of a baby
airborne just before being grasped by the arms of Daddy.
Such laughter bloated my belly, compelled me towards wine. I was
never thirsty. So I forgot about water. This practical joke exposed
me to the skullduggery of devious organs. My parents stopped
calling. Guided by the recent elongation of my index finger,
my paintings tuned impressionistic. Some techniques for nutrition
I gleaned from a manual. The rest, the doctor tells me, I expunged
as excrement. Later, my students gifted me a bouquet of silver roses.
Blowing a raspberry wasn’t the ideal finish to the well crafted
speech, I was given feedback. I didn’t argue with the critics.
I loved confounding way more than captivating. I drank green
tea daily for improved anti-oxidation. Though most days I suffered
from a constipation of intellect and its over-reliance on eloquence.
It was a dream to play the detective in a thriller. It was a dream
to be truly insightful. The fondness for capsicum and my mother’s
bitter gourd recipe outlasted my aspirations to be a well rounded
human being. I liked my chapattis smoky and crisp. It felt nice
to gurgle paper. Why I called the mirror by my name must have something
to do with my fear of dementia. When I was cast in the role of a tree
in Snow White and Seven Dwarfs, I complained to the teacher. My soggy
eyes gave away my desperation. The Lord said, eat or get lost. Over
time, my favorite Baskin Robbins flavor came to be Gold Medal Ribbon.