When I was really small, I thought if the roads were smooth I could tie my legs to the rear bumper of a car and travel all around the world. I thought I would look up at the stars, go from constellation to stories and from stories to reveries, and then suddenly jolt back to the reality of a speed breaker. Beaches would be a great place to go to then, the foam and pearl washed froth splashing on my face, little red crabs chasing me and then borrowing on the upheaval of sand left on my wake. And then the car would take me up the slopes of the Sahayadris and I would watch over my forehead, the grand civilizations of man and machines. I would sink in the black soil, like soaking in a chocolate sponge. And when I jumped across the ridges of the Grand Canyon, I would look down at the meandering ribbon of water, and the walls, copper black and silent. I would travel to the greenest forests of Amazon, and slide on the mossy riverbeds. I would stare at the towering canopies of pine and cedar, and wonder of the heavens beyond. I would plan evenings on Tiger Hills, watching the orange skies shroud the Everest to darkness. I would go back to the comfort of my cloudless mountain mist, and the drink the evening dew. I would wait for the sandman and the blue fairy, I would hear the mountain sing of battles lost, and rivers lament of descending to man. I would fall asleep in the soot and grease from the exhaust of my car, as the smell of burning rubber.

Then I started to grow up, in a world of friction and force. I was taught to follow traffic lights, and zebra crossings. Whenever I try to dream the same dream now, and I find myself trapped under a garbage truck in a traffic jam! The obituary has been written.

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