Attic.

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I step into the attic and a overhaul of emotions attack me. A lot stuff stay there put, untouched and uncalled. A sewing machine, clothes from baby days, my little Mr. Noddy and old photographs. Mountain of memories lie under gracious frosting of dust. A love affair strewn in the corner that couldn’t see the light of the day. A broken friendship that turned bitter inside a rusted box by the window. The flashes of yesterday where life meant nothing more than an orange Popsicle on a summer day and a care free dance to accompany the pouring rains. The tears that took the realm of silence and loneliness of the attic to flood, have now dried out into thin air. But the stench of despair, vulnerability and detachment still lingers here. Skeletons of old self lie there with a faint smile that warms the heart. And I don’t know how far I’ve come but as I nudge open the attic door and silently slide in, I see traces of person forgotten with time. Even though I try to fit into these little pieces and try to remember that person, they keep me at arm’s distance, drawing out a line. So, I sit there in silence dropping a few more baggages of present, so I can walk out with a contrasting attitude.

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