From the jingle of coins in our pockets as we wait for our turn at the ice cream parlour, to the blast of the guitar of our teenage hearts. From a crave to shout, to whimper into the night till our heart stitches itself back. For a wish of crashing waves and the silence of the skies. Broken bones and sewed up lives, haunting harps that play inside. The swish of wind upon the chimes, the tinkle of dream-catchers as we drift on to some distant lands. At times jarring, at times repulsive like the nail on the chalkboard. It changes, melts and fuses, like a symphony of tunes that play unto the whims of something greater. Despite this, we move on, collectors of sounds, of songs and pregnant silences.

Sanjana Varma

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