Moving on, only to move again

It was her idea, of course! A nudge to spark the seemingly dormant creativity in me.

Recently, my cynical, nihilist friend decided to call it time on her spacious South Delhi apartment where she spent barely six months, as she didn’t ‘feel it’ there anymore; and, she wanted me to document her moves among the brown cartons while she packed her priced possessions.

It’s probably a reflection on our generation, which craves for constant change. We don’t prefer to own much, we’d simply like to pass through them moments, and perhaps, just perhaps, hold on to a few. One could argue that it’s a luxury our parents couldn’t afford. But does that mean our perspective is invalid?

This is just my cold brain on a Saturday afternoon when hailstones are lashing Delhi in the time of Covid 19.

Let the packing begin.

Who''s afraid of Travis Bickle?

The oven that never baked a cake. 

To them, loners.

A gift from argentum ad infinitum.

Voted.

If only. 

The reader. 

The readings.

And magical realism.

Her life, literally.

'That box to be never opened'.

Add caption - got one?

Almost done.

She's got the moves. 

Oh! Kubrick's still on the wall.

Coming for you, Vendetta.

Yeah, I've probably never got my hands so dirty.

Where it ends, it begins. 

And it goes on, in loops.

Ella's certainly adding to the ambiance.

"Didn't know I had these".

And then, the one and only, Mr. Tambourine Man.

Way too much talent in those frames.

So long.