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From the quiet position in the white room, I thought
even the rain against the window. Bent inwards for a while. For
a while there was. A planet & I was so much of myself in it.
Neural shadows lit. The fuselage of the past setting itself on fire
outside. All valleys undulating beneath.The musculature of respite.
Against the philosophy of material history I’m knocking. Knees
with you down the potholed roads of my rusty city turned
bokeh on an auto ride. In the beginning I was still a ghost laminated
to form. Mechanist of renewals, my theses reformed. In bed reading
Hold your gun arm steady to keep the color of the flower *
on the framed print of a print. In a dim room. On a slow screen.
& Diya, or I. Terrified of the images we make without
the comfort of a lens in my hand. Each shot an archivist strumming.
The red thread of time. Its steady shoulders, its reliable spine.
Like if, only with you, I want to walk through the city into long sleep.
Like if, only with you, I want to wake having forgotten how to speak.
Dipanjali Roy