I’m a more-than-willing practitioner of an art called ‘forgetting’ though my skills could be debated upon and won. It is a survival instinct that is more than pertinent to someone who suffers from mental ADD, the endless yearning for change.

When I first come to a place, I notice everything about it— the white wall with a patch of whiter patch on a part of it that made me itch in a way I never knew I could itch before, the way the door sings when it closes, the weight of the door so that I could take note of the minimum strength required to shut it without straining it at the hinges and the decibel at which the door shuts when I do so and the way a tile does not correspond to the line— a tradition its predecessors have established, the optimum angle at which I need to adjust the windows towards to avoid the sun at noon, an hour before noon, an hour after noon, two hours before noon, two hours after noon, three, four, five, minutes, seconds, mili, nano, so that I will not have to adjust them anymore.

And after a while when I get used to the perfections and imperfections and the yet classified elements of the place, I don’t notice all that anymore although I’m more than certain that there is more for me to notice than ever before.

And I arrive home the next day, forcing myself to marvel at the yellowed wall with paler patch of yellow on a small part of it which I carefully stroked while walking down its memory lane and the way the door yells and does not actually closes, the weight of the door so that I could slam it in a fit of anger when necessary without actually smashing it and the way a tile does not correspond to the line, a tradition its predecessors have gone on to resemble in more outrageous ways and the optimum angle at which I need to adjust the windows which are shut all the time to appropriately welcome drizzles which arrive twice a month.

While telling myself all the time how wonderful my new surroundings got.

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