Written by Divisha Chaudhry
The geyser is roasting water.
The water comes out murky, colloidal and yellowish because of that.
So much heat, so much water.
I turn the tap right for shower. Some misty droplets fall on my skin.
Brown, the water turns after meeting my skin.
The water adapts like a chameleon, the water remembers.
It remembers my skin and the heat of the geyser. It adjusts to become favourable for us
But in the process loses its own no-colour. Like plastic.
How would one know if transparent plastic scraps are present in the water supply?
It might taste and smell like plastic I think and give off black fumes when burned. I’d test that after
Test by burning water – if it turns black and volatile.
For now, I am remembering this water like it remembers me or some other beings that are no longer
alive. Their memory living in this water’s memory passes onto me.
Telepathy with the dead.
Yes, I am feeling something.
Hair hay wired. Red clothing is my favourite. Bite marks from my pet wolf. Clips fluttering lose. Feet
dangling by the field.
So many voices, so many heads.
Hush, Hush. I turn the tap off, the memories disappear. They’ll trouble me again tomorrow. Or someone else. I grab my white towel off the hook and wipe off the droplets lying solitary on my
No more dead living memories. No more hot geyser roasted water. I’ll mix the cold and hot
water tomorrow. Maybe that will kill those memories. Good, good idea.
A 20-year English [research] student who explores literary arts to channel her thoughts and advocates for Intersectional Environmentalism. Divisha is a wild spirit who is trying to manifest a slow, more present life and still wondering how she has managed to come this far:)
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