The following is another look at an article By Kriti Mukherjee and publish or posted
here http://www.lassiwithlavina.com/24_7_talkischeap/a-fresh-off-the-boat-immigrants-me-time/html
It’s a good read and brings light to the dreaded FOBs.
It begins.
How did I get here? Where is this place? Its dark and forbidding
a cavernous pit with creeping crawling slithering ghosts, a spider’s trap of
cobwebs and shadows parading in review. Has time forgotten or is this now, a fantasies
of nightmares and horrible fears. It approaches, I feel its hot breath as it
come near, do I scream, and no it will find me. I chock the scream daring not
to swallow. It cross over, its sliming slobber drool rolls down my cheek, do I dare
breath, or it will know I am here. Where
can I run, if I only had a gun, maybe I could kill it, but there are more?
I see the clock on the wall, the windows and door, the half cup
of coffee that has grown cold. I rub my arms, yes I am warm and alive, but how
can I be here and there? If I could only hear a sound, a voice, see someone I know.
Wait that’s me I was only three, there is a robin in the tree, here comes the
postman his name is the same as me, and Trixie grandpa’s dog yapping out a greeting. I am lost in time a forest of days, moments trapped
in the cobwebs of my mine. If I were not alone or someplace back home, would it
be there? These ghosts that taunt me and it that thing, that horrible thing it
lashes at me leaving surging whelps, stinging cuts, biting gnawing ghosts from
the past. If I go outside their there, staring looking at me as if I don’t exist,
seeing thru me as if I am not there. Stranger passing by, don’t they know I am
not from here or are they avoiding it, or does it have a hold on them?
I heard a sound, it’s the clock, it tick a minute has passed.
Where have I been? I was just there for years, but only a minute has passed. I will
open the door let in some air, maybe I can escape, will it let me? The air smells different, it’s not the same,
it does not smell of home. Ah maybe some music will quail the beast. The song, it’s
my favorite, but something is wrong it does not sound the same, not like I remember. Eat something, yes, that is it, I will eat
some chocolate cake, no I must not. It will
hear and devour me. What wrong with the clock,
it does not move, has time stopped? No I
saw the hand move, I heard it tick.
Enough of this. I am going to face it. Who are you? What do
you want from me? I am fear you FOB. I am you the one you call ME- time. I am
just here to keep you company. There is nothing to fear but fear it’s self.
5 comments:
Loved this. Thank you for sharing.
Nice post/
very well written......
Roy, you know everything and can capture any feeling. Its hard to believe that you can familiarize with the feeling of being a FOB! Not just familiarize but live it!!! I am amazed beyond words... how do you know that minute that does not end at 60 secs? How do you know the feeling of being the center but being invisible?? Even though my experiences in the first year in US was not very drastic and as rightly put by you I was my own enemy - I have heard of thousands of stories where that realization never came to people - and they even left, gave up on the country and bid adieu. You are remarkable my friend - you are something else!! Thank you so very much for thinking my story worth a post in your blog.
enjoyed reading this....
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