It’s not great to write on mobile- especially on Medium but now that I have suddenly had the image of a bright pink sweater and the smell of motor oil in my head – I take it as a sign to write

In the chessboard of chance we come across a number of sweaters. Most of them are in the spectrum of blue, grey, black and occasionally green or red. If we come across some eccentric soul we see them wearing a yellow sweater even if they are not wearing one. I say we as if it happens to all of us – no I say we because in these moments when I observe sweaters or imagine them- I am most certainly more than one person. All the influence on my life becomes apparent. Someone must have told me that a yellow sweater is more outrageous than a blue one or something must have happened that I came to this conclusion. That said, the image in my head is not even yellow, it is that of a bright pink sweater and when I try to think about the human wearing it – I imagine an old lady walking slowly in a supermarket and pausing at the soda lane – seemingly looking at the bubbles. She loves cola.

On the other hand there is this overwhelming smell of petrol- which doesn’t quite gel with the earlier imagery. It starts to change the colors in the scene and the old lady starts to lose form – her sweater becomes a label on a canister and she is the container with the sole purpose of propelling a car. She asks me, “do you drive?” and I say I don’t and she doesn’t look disappointed with that answer. I ask her, “do you like to drive?” and she says “sure”. And then we exit each other’s lives to never meet again. She sits on the other side of a chessboard where all the digits are pink and I sit on this side of the chessboard in my blue sweater wondering how this game is played. I place my notepad under the chessboard table and scribble an equation and show it to her. She doesn’t see anything, she is not in my universe. I look at the chess pieces – black and white. I stare at my equation and give it a name: propulsion.

In that moment my head rotates to a new vision – the smell of motor oil is gone and so has the sweater. I see a set of giant dice rolling (they each have more than 500 sides) before I land on another image- to be seen and gone forever.

There is something about chance in this writing but there is also something about the present. There is some indication that the bright pink sweater might as well be this writing. Oddly placed in the universe of more easily acceptable colors and to its advantage or disadvantage covered in the strong unforgiving smell of spreading motor oil.

Drifter; Poet. ‘The Saree Shop’ is my debut poetry collection.

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