Icy sheets of water, unforgiving, relentless.
Shivering, she doesn’t pull the flaps down.
She doesn’t stick her head out, grinning into the rain, instead she sits there, lost in her thoughts
– the ones that can’t be, that won’t be, that adamantly refuse – to be drowned out by music, rain, the tuk guy’s attempts at conversation.
They aren’t even muffled.
The thunder is in competition with them; who can crash and boom the loudest?
who will make the girl shiver, not out of cold, but out of self doubt and fear?
My money would be on her thoughts.
The wheels slice through puddles, leaving behind
lines in the water,
lines that fade away in ripples,
temporary.
Her thoughts clamour for attention; but what if the lines we draw, the lines people draw,
were as fleeting.
If only we could erase them.
These lines – the yes, the no, and the questionable grey area,all neatly marked out,
by who?
Cartographers of society, walking around a map,
drawing lines, neat, clear demarcations,
that blur into indistinct smudges on closer inspection?
Lines that blur with independent thought?
Lines that blur when we realise that people should not be boxed in?
Lines that create more chaos than order? neat, tidy lines have no place in our world.
Lines should be temporary, fading away into joyous ripples.
She shakes her head, pays the trishaw driver, and gets out.
The rain is now a drizzle.

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