๐…๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐‚๐ข๐ซ๐œ๐ฅ๐ž

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A few decades have passed by since I last heard that kinda โ€˜musicโ€™ (if at all, I can call it music).

As an adolescent my sense of music was rock-bottom in the truest sense. My mom used to yell her lungs out, with her incessant rants โ€œswitch it off, will you? These ainโ€™t music, these are people squawking, howling.โ€

How Iโ€™d detested her then, only to find myself lost in the utopian future.ย ๐ผโ€™๐‘‘ย ๐‘๐‘’ย ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘’ย ๐‘๐‘’๐‘ ๐‘กย ๐‘š๐‘œ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘’๐‘Ÿ.ย ๐‘๐‘’๐‘ฃ๐‘’๐‘Ÿย ๐‘ค๐‘œ๐‘ข๐‘™๐‘‘ย ๐ผย ๐‘ ๐‘ž๐‘ข๐‘Ž๐‘ค๐‘˜ย ๐‘Ž๐‘๐‘œ๐‘ข๐‘กย ๐‘š๐‘ฆย ๐‘โ„Ž๐‘–๐‘™๐‘‘โ€™๐‘ ย ๐‘โ„Ž๐‘œ๐‘–๐‘๐‘’๐‘ , Iโ€™d mutter under my breath with unyielding resolve. But then time passes and everything assumes new significance. That same thing that felt possible a while back, now it makes no sense.

A few decades later, now when I listen to such nauseating songs being played at home, every organ of my body starts to revolt. Loving bonds become inaccessible and I repeat history.ย ๐‘†๐‘ค๐‘–๐‘ก๐‘โ„Žย ๐‘–๐‘กย ๐‘œ๐‘“๐‘“,ย ๐‘ค๐‘–๐‘™๐‘™ย ๐‘ฆ๐‘œ๐‘ข?ย ๐‘‡โ„Ž๐‘’๐‘ ๐‘’ย ๐‘Ž๐‘–๐‘›โ€™๐‘กย ๐‘š๐‘ข๐‘ ๐‘–๐‘,ย ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘’๐‘ ๐‘’ย ๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ๐‘’ย ๐‘๐‘’๐‘œ๐‘๐‘™๐‘’ย ๐‘ ๐‘ž๐‘ข๐‘Ž๐‘ค๐‘˜๐‘–๐‘›๐‘”,ย โ„Ž๐‘œ๐‘ค๐‘™๐‘–๐‘›๐‘”. I yell, with sheer indignation plastered on my face.

All of a sudden, I hear vexatious Karma whispering โ€œI was hoping we could carry on where we left offโ€. A feeling of Deja Vu sneaks within me.

 

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: The above story is a winning entry for a contest that required to write a piece of prose/poetry in which past, present and future come together.

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