My Keys

My mother, the most awesome being alive, is unwell these days. Prayers are highly welcome. Hence in tribute to her divine existence and in an attempt to sooth my frayed nerves and avert a panic-attack, I am sharing a post from 2006 in remembrance. I echo these prayers today. “May you all never have to carry keys to your homes.”

“This harmless bunch of shiny objects doesn’t include a key to our house. Yet that is so symbolic of my life as a whole. My conditional independence. My parents over-protectiveness. My general lack of responsibilities. A total care-freedom. Most of all, its a reminder, that anytime I get home, no matter what my arrival time is, there is always going to be someone there. That all my family are well, that my mother or grandma are going to lovingly open the door, ask how my day has been, feed me and tell me about theirs. May I never have to carry a key to our door.”

Ramblings of the Disoriented Mind

Do you believe objects have memories? That day to day mundane objects that you carry or that lie around the house in fact remember where they’ve been. Could it be possible that the secrets of history and the way we used to be are locked up embedded in wood and stone, completely unaccessible.

It sits there on my desk, even as I type this, it seems it is forever around, if somebody was ever to write my biography it would be such a good source, if only it could speak. Most of you have already seen it, the massive bunch of things that constitutes my “keys”. Yet calling them keys is really a lie, for its just one key and a bunch of chains.

It’s funny, I never purchase key chains when I’m abroad. I am a firm believer that travel is a gift in itself, the sights and sounds…

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