During “Fears February” I wrote a story about how I was scared my experience of India would become dulled down by time (read here). Today I’m revisiting that fear.
I’ve mixed the original story with the new story (the original is scrubbed out)
She’d explored abandoned palaces hidden in dust
The memories had slipped through her hands like dust
Communicated in foreign tongue and dance
Her tongue twisted and her feet slid as she tried to replicate the language and dance
Weaved through chaos
Sitting in lines of perfectly organised traffic she tried to recall the messy streets
And tattooed the tale on her hands
It had all faded like henna
For she feared when she got home
Including her fears
The knowledge would vanish
For a lesson did remain
And the memories would become empty anecdotes
Each anecdote reminded her that there was another world outside her own
Dredged up only to impress others at parties
She’d tell them so she’d never forget that there was always more to learn about that other world
freyawrightbrough 