Today I scribbled something on my palm after about ten years. And I am hating the ink which has not gone even after two rounds of washing hands. I remember how no day used to pass during those school years without ink all over my left palm. I remember sometimes I even showed off my talent (to myself, who else would care) of being able to write with the left hand, thereby having both my palms full of ink. Half the space was covered with my own name or pseudo signature. Obsessions were of a different kind back then. As thoughtless as today’s though. I wrote and drew endlessly on the little 3×3 desk allocated for a year, each year. Well, table graffiti was with me through college too, but then I only wrote lyrics of songs I liked. Actually, I used to write a line or two each of a combination of songs to spell out my own mind’s story. But again, nobody else cared. At that point, somehow I didn’t even want anyone to care or read the stuff that I wrote. You know the typical teen/college mindset.
Why I started writing out this post was actually the fact that I remembered how one of my friends used to note her homework on her palm. Well, just that.
And just that.
Fuchsia 