Dear ______

Dear ______?

Lately, I’ve become a dusty shoebox, that kids coast far under their beds. Old but full of love. Just like archaeologists, some people will pull a piece from it to try to figure out which piece goes where and maybe they’ll spend a plethora of time restoring the water damaged letters inside. Raised in a busy, noisy neighborhood where traffic doesn’t wither till 2 am sometimes, I heard someone play flute from far lands. A woman sang along. They played old songs from Hindi movies like ‘Saagar’ and 'Maine Pyar Kiya’. Reminded me of the summer a decade ago when my mom used to teach music to my brother and me until she realized It was pointless to teach unruly kids like us who drew crooked doodles in their music notebooks. Pacific like a mindful audience, I heard every song the person with the flute played. A few months back I could only hear warlike honking and loud combative shoppers from my home. This has been a good change. I quickly stored this feeling like a withered cute button inside this dusty shoebox. We don’t realize but we all are those dusty shoeboxes. Well not all. Some of us are those old cookie canisters which we used as piggy banks, some of us are the dry fruit tins wrapped in a satin handkerchief that we picked up from somewhere, decorated fallibly by the kid that raised us only to cache feelings and memories. I’m afraid mine is nearly full now and I’ve only rung quarter. Can you picture which box are you? And what’s something that you’ve canned in your box recently? We’re living in the paradox of times where we have taller buildings, shorter tempers. We’re taught to Spend more, and love less. We have more degrees but we read so little. We talk so much but smile so seldom. We wake up. We sleep. We wake up. We sleep. How many days was that? It's okay if you don’t know. The news is full of numbers. Corporations you’ve never heard of sending you random emails, telling you to “be safe”. Internet telling you to pulp a happy face and how to work out from home, how to cook and whatnot. You try to register what you can but their jargon energies come out to battle yours. Energies are exhausting. We’ve conquered the atom but not our prejudice. Don’t ever let anyone lead you to believe that you’re healing sparsely. Too fast, too slow, too loud or too quiet. There is no right way, no shortcut. no safety net. You don’t heal for others. You do it for yourself. Heal in silence if you need to. Or heal with windows thrown wide open, with the breeze in your hair. Heal in solitude or heal with your friends. Heal in peace. And do it when you’re ready. Yours, Old shoebox.