In the first week of October, my phone crashed. Like Launchpad always did. Similar to him, it survived as well, but with more-than-visible damages. The fractured lines running on the screen created a wormhole in my throat after i found the courage to pick up the phone from the floor. Goes without saying that the sound that our smartphones make after hitting the ground is the closest we’ll ever get to hearing a heart break. Needless to add, i slipped into semi-depression during the following hours. You know when something like this happens to you, you start reminiscing EVERYTHING that happened before the very moment your phonescreen got kissed by gravity. You should have seen my face by the way — ’cause i couldn’t — when i held my poor phone in my hand. We both looked at each other in a language that screamed of unspoken horror. Since the touchscreen was working and there was no real internal damage to weep on, i was trying hard to convince the Buddha in me that it was alright. But whenever my eyes met my phone, i couldn’t forgive myself for letting such an atrocious thing happen to a dear friend. The design in the resulting crack suggested domestic abuse on my part, as if I punched it four times with each knock leading to epicenters of confounding streams. One such knock happens to be on the very point where my notifications are displayed, obstructing the view. Hence, “
Those lines on my palm
Those lines on my palm
Those lines on my palm
In the first week of October, my phone crashed. Like Launchpad always did. Similar to him, it survived as well, but with more-than-visible damages. The fractured lines running on the screen created a wormhole in my throat after i found the courage to pick up the phone from the floor. Goes without saying that the sound that our smartphones make after hitting the ground is the closest we’ll ever get to hearing a heart break. Needless to add, i slipped into semi-depression during the following hours. You know when something like this happens to you, you start reminiscing EVERYTHING that happened before the very moment your phonescreen got kissed by gravity. You should have seen my face by the way — ’cause i couldn’t — when i held my poor phone in my hand. We both looked at each other in a language that screamed of unspoken horror. Since the touchscreen was working and there was no real internal damage to weep on, i was trying hard to convince the Buddha in me that it was alright. But whenever my eyes met my phone, i couldn’t forgive myself for letting such an atrocious thing happen to a dear friend. The design in the resulting crack suggested domestic abuse on my part, as if I punched it four times with each knock leading to epicenters of confounding streams. One such knock happens to be on the very point where my notifications are displayed, obstructing the view. Hence, “