Friday, January 3, 2014

Locked

Old loves are like keys to doors of old houses you once lived in. Doors your once walked in and out of, every day, without thinking too much about it. Those keys that you always kept with you. Clinking softly, moving about, rubbing against other essentials in your bag - lipgloss, chewing gum sticks, peppermint wrappers, tissues, lint. Entangling in a messy game of twister with other everyday stuff - in a threesome with earphones and rosaries that in turn twist acrobatically with scrunchies. A sort of conflict for predominance. For those of us who keep our keys in designated pockets, the key recognizes and rewards the gesture with an acolyte-like eagerness to serve. Acknowledging the importance it is given. And for those of us, who mindlessly toss them into our bags, it means five minutes of sitting in the stairway and laborious fishing, or in a worst case scenario, an inside-out turning of the bag. Regardless of whether or not you have a bursting bladder screaming to be addressed. Just to be let in. Just to be home.


Then one day you move on. You leave it behind. To a bigger, better place, with a brand new set of keys. What was once familiar, now slowly fades from memory. A habit you've given up. The passages of routine change, the kinks that were committed to memory, get splotchier and blurred by indifference. Unhinged from the key chain you picked so lovingly to give its nondescript, cookie-cutter, conveyer belt featurelessness some mark of distinction. An appendage of identification. Indicating possession. My. Mine. Those keys hold no place in your life anymore. They don't open any doors that matter. Long handed over to new owners - new lives in which they're relevance. Just like old loves.

2 comments:

Vikas Chandra said...

its lovely.

old loves are keys. new love is a key!

MissDanThrope said...

absolutely! :)