I am a gypsy, shuffling on the fragile paths of love,
I speak Romany, mellifluously on the streets of alcove.
I have an attic of romance,
Residing in the closet of beloved.

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I went up to the attic today
Perhaps after lapse of an eon
Away from the mundane chores

There I have memories carefully stored
Pleasant, funny, smiling, cold
Treasured fragments of
Memories new and old.

#continued in caption #

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"For a lad in the attic"

Dear,
I'm happy for you. I came to know that you have gone to live in the attic. This is unduly a generous act.
It is true that the attic is very small in height, even its window is tinier than my photo frame but it's ok, at least you are in solitude.
The day when you begin musing beyond others, you start living there just above of others.
Just above of their unsophisticated sense, insane way of handling problems.
This is the place...Yeah, I'm right "The place", far from the hustle and shoal of these so-called intellects.
And you are there to find your true potential.
May your efforts will serve a path in this voyage.
Happy Journey

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•The Attic•

I live in present. Present lives in the house. This present will become past after some time. But this doesn't mean that it will be forgotten. I go to the attic. It is the showcase of pasts. I see an old toy car with which I played when I was 5. I see a drawing book in which I painted when I was 9. I see my first bat I got when I was 14. I see shaver by which I shaved for the first time when I was 19. I found the lost duplicate key of my bike I bought when I was 27. I see many presents turning into pasts. I have visited the stories of past that plays one by one, attacking me with nostalgia, the memories. I don't want to go deep because I will be lost. Light evening sunshine is passing through a small hole. Evening vibes are hitting me. This evening is an evening to remember. This is one of the pasts to remember, too in the attic. I will write this in a page and will paste it in the walls of attic, as this will become a past and then after years, I will again write about this past.

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Profession is always kept in the showcase,
Where passion lies in the attic, with dust on it.

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I lean my face out of the window of my attic to grab a view of the Sun floating on the horizon like a baby!

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Broken hearts are like attics,
Filled with memories and hence silent.

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In her attic,
there was this old iron chest;
tied tight with jute rope,
it held letters,
bus tickets, cards,
chocolate wrappers, and dry flowers.

She opened it every winter, she once said.
I dared not ask why.

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A village girl, Anna, longed for adventures when she would glare at the tall dustant mountains. One day, while cleaning the attic, she found a map hidden in an old torn book which revealed hidden treasure in one of the mountains. Longing for such an adventure, her excitement knew no bounds and she left home alone next day to find the hidden treasure.

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