The Milkman

On my journey to somewhere, I encountered a Milkman, on his motorbike. He had a peculiar moustache which hinted at his stature and life as he lived it. Clearly he wasn’t just a fluke. He has travelled. Went through life. Rises and the falls. He had been to many somewheres, than I can imagine. Still he was travelling now. Like me. To a somewhere.

As the traffic went green, and the burst of life happened as if being liberated from the shackles of Time, Morality and Circumstance, there came an instinct to go behind him. It was easy as he was travelling along the way I was too, sharing just a small room that was this existence and the pocket time that was our own, at least I made it our own.

Grrrr grrr…. that was his sound,

Brrrr brrrr…. so was mine,

And a Shhhhhushhh…. in between acting as gatekeeper so that we never become one, only to share that sweet little time as two distinct lone souls. A Silence shared together.

Time was Lazy and it was hot. It was akin to two cowboys riding to their own barns , who forgot to have a drink in the bar beside, at the least using this one as a compensation to their might.

He seemed tense and wounded. No fact or fiction to support my claim, but I saw what I saw. I felt what I felt. With our fates lined up for an upcoming despair, this was just the place to dissolve each other into the other, if only I had his permission.

And then comes a left , with him tilting his vehicle with all its heft. The part was inevitable only it was too early. Time was quick. And so I question myself in our small encounter, in our little room of existence, Was the pocket of time ever there ? Or it was just that the source of my imagination ate it up? Gulp gulp gulp… too soon , too figmenty.

All that is left is that little gulp in my throat never to

relieve itself, and a memory drip drip drip.

Oh yes ! The dripping !

As I remember now there was a container that made me claim him as a milk guy at the very first place. That the container was never contained. There was a hole.

Oh yes there was a hole !

How can I forget? Was it because that dripping acted as just a timer for our tiny rendezvous ? Or was it just the dance of moments we ended up sharing? Or it was Silence’s trick to reveal that it was never being shared? And as I make stay my acquainted vehicle and look back , there it is! All of it till the milk of life supports him to his Somewhere. To go or not to go? The bard helps, but it is not enough. Nothing is enough now. Its calling me. I want to go. I really do. To the realm of somewhere made just for him and so for me?

Maybe I’ll buy some more milk on the way , only to refuel.

But so I realise now. And the pain that that realization enriches me with, only hints at that, never will Eternity support us the way it did then, the now that never came forth. Nothing’s same. As infectious the path of his somewhere seems, I have my own to traverse. My own milk to juice out of this existence.

Maybe buy a container for it too, the uncontained type of course. With a hole in it. To leave trace of my journey never to be travelled ever again. To be totally unaware that my tension and wounds aren’t just mine but ultimately shared whether I want it or not.

Or should I bear the burden of containing it on my own. So that in the way the milk stales out, and life stakes in. Only to discover at the end that the desire to be contained is hindering only my connection to fellow milkmen around. Maybe that belief is what made him never to acknowledge me, to leave that permission ungranted and to render his presence Incomplete.

As I look in front the journey isn’t till the milk runs out… its till I and my buddy stop. I have to go. Oh no really this time. I need to go and sorry ! As all the buds of your nostalgia shall forever remain Unfulfilled.

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