Black, White Noise, Dust & Onion · Shreya

Streets of Ozara by Shreya

The topic of this month was to write something utilizing at least 3 of the following words: White Noise, Black, Dust, Onion.
Your feelings are real your fight is real, your want is real your might is real. What isn’t real anymore is your purpose for fighting. You’re walking up and down this place trying to make it yours, going faster every time a passerby claims to know you. You walk through the entire street without saying a word hoping that maybe one day everyone will recognise your face, maybe one day you will be seen, but for what’s worth? As you scurry around the street barefoot you’ve forgotten that at home you have a beautiful plant you promised to water. You promised yourself you would shape and let the plant grow until one day you saw a man on the road walking in oddly placed blue pants as people looked at him in awe, calling out his name time and again. You walked out, out of sheer curiosity but you never returned.
Awhile has passed by and you’re now called Mr. Hurry scurry and maybe that’s for all the right reasons or maybe for all wrong. None of that matters for as long as you realise what is going on. On a bright sunny afternoon your feet beings withering almost like the plant you forgot about, you walk a few more streets this time only to slow down right near a quivering old man. You look into the man’s eyes and find something in your heart ‘crack’ . “O old one, you begin. Have we ever met before? “Once or twice I passed the lane of ozara, the streets of compassion and light” “I had a need to be liked and wanted and everything went right” Until one day I was on my daily runs to fill the streets with my presence when I saw a little kid holding on to her mother’s feet, shivering and crying”. Said the old one quivering like a toddler himself. “What’s wrong old man?”, you ask. “My wife, she walked out towards the streets in search for me, she was a kind one, my daughter walked behind her. They could never find me because I was lost into the madness of the streets, the madness of being wanted all I heard was white noise instead of their calls and the smell of onions in the dusty old streets of Darr. My wife is now no more and my daughter perished through her dead soul”, “I don’t wade through the streets anymore, no-one calls out to me. Like they used to before, I only seek to hear my little girls voice but all I hear is white noise.”
You take a step back hearing this, your mind turns on and you take a step back, the turnaround and run, run so fast you realise you’ve walked too far, yet you don’t give up until you reach the streets of ozara. You find a little blue cottage amidst the dust with a green hint of glow around it. You push open the door and sit back on your armchair as you grab your almost weak plant. But somethings going on in the streets of ozara, you hear footsteps thumping across the street, you look out the window to see a young boy in his mid-twenties dressed all right in black, wading through the street as everyone in unison call out his name. Time will tell, only time will tell! You close your window shut and warm the fireplace, closing your eyes shut for the first time in many many months.

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