It’s March, and there’s no smell of Spring anywhere. The sun is recklessly shining down, and I cannot help but crib, complain, fight. Reality is indeedly distressing, and I bolt from it as often as I can. Today, classes were on as usual, and I set my teeth and encountered them, albeit sleepily. After ten minutes I was in Willow Farm, swinging recklessly on the ladder, and feasting on plump glossy tangy apples. Quick Cut. Same ladder, topmost rung, and I am sitting, eyes half-closed, toes curled, with a gigantic multi colored apple in hand. And I have a fringe.
I wake up to find myself in a very yellow classroom.
“The dream has begun- the dream that he has of apple picking has psychological basis in reality.”
Petite professor arches her famous eyebrows at me. I half grin sheepishly and resume unraveling Frost.
I prefer guavas. Power naps help. Otherwise, everything’s all right.
4 comments:
Lucky Thirteen.
Me likeslikeslikes.
<3
We discussed the trippiness of the poem, remember? :D
But yes, sadly we in Kolkata have no Spring.
And I am a shameless endorser of guavas.
Anushka: Yes I remember, and guavas with a hint of jhaal noon is fabulous. :D Frost is a stud.
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