Nostalgia is a kind of violence
A song breaks at its pauses,
splinters collecting beneath
hushed reverence; locked
in a terrarium of time.
The other day it rained,
and the sun came out,
hitting
every single leaf on that
tree at an angle,
sending
light skittering through
crevices of memory.
Nostalgia is a kind of
violence,
the pain a
sharp reminder of the past’s
soft afterglow — vivid, kind,
brutal.
*****
Amid the wreckage
The colours of the walls melt
and find their way down in steady
drips – glacial slow,
staggering through memory in
staccato bursts
That shade of yellow will
remind you of butter, sunlight
in the afternoon, and of the
patina that your mind takes
on when exceptionally anxious.
And the shadows that
are there, constantly out of
reach, that come down to mingle
when the siren sounds – loud,
shrill, urgent.
Where is the exit to the escape
room? What are you running from?
In the dense straits of
everyday cacophony, do not
expect kindness.
The sirens sound hollow and
bereft, stained yellow with
panic.
Are you in your mind, weary
and out of breath or
are you just here, a temporary
presence waiting for the
blue light of clarity
to wash you out?
Maya Nandhini is a freelancer from Chennai who finds solace in reading and writing both poetry and prose.