All my dreams are made on the bathroom floor.
Here is a rough carpet I’ve dragged there. There in the solace of my company, I sit and let myself get lost in the last four pages of the book I am reading. I press my head back to the cool pink tiled wall, once I am done. I close my eyes, this time. I decide what city I would like to be in and write the story in my head.
I have always found this to be a safe place. I smuggle items under my kurta, sucking in my stomach and tucking them in the front of my jeans or shalwar. A diary, a book, a whole wad of A4 sheets to draw on, pens. Cooly pressed against my hot skin, their awkward corners stick out from the covering cloth.Outside, I ponder on my mother’s gaze. She who read before me and brought me into this world to love books can read the burning honesty in my cheeks.
There is so much more to be said about how much I loved spending time on this tiled floor.
During my fond visits, I would always wonder if this was me slowly turning evil. This is how...
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