By Pratishtha Dobhal
Stirred: Page 1
She runs wild, naked, with her hair in its own fury. Recklessly, she skates on the glacial expanse. She feels cold and hot at once.
“Different from the smooth textured confines of the drawers”, she wonders.
The world is now a closet that houses everything that ever touched your skin.
There is little room for finding anything outside these opaque fault lines.
All this, and she slows her run into a pace.
The hair now caresses her back; the beaded sweat crystallizing into beads. She tries to take in her surroundings. No longer does she need to focus on herself.
Where did her centre disappear?
Everything is black and white. The mortar black road runs devilishly between snow scones.
What lays beyond those mounds, she doesn’t know, much less cares for.
“I need warmth”, she tells herself.
This: whatever and however she is, where she is: Hits her.
Finding a spot on the snow scone; wedged between the cold valley she rests her tired body.
She wonders if the icy pillows may ensconce her…. She laughs at her own stupidity.
She lets the cold take her into the long lonely night.
She bares it all, to the twinkling dots in the sky,
to the halo around the snow, on this moon kissed night.