Viti Mittal
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Sky is the Metaphor

If you type “Stereotype definition” into Google, the answer you get is a “widely held but fixed and oversimplified image or idea of a particular type of person or thing.” Following which it is promptly exemplified “the stereotype of the woman as the carer".” And stereotypes are what come to mind when I think of examples of “You may think ___, But I know from experience ____.” You may think I forget, but wait till you read this.


People say I’m forgetful, that my photographic memories are restricted to the camera in my hand and they don’t even get mad at me for forgetting birthdays. It’s been so long that I hardly remember anything from that day except for the things I remember.

You knew me then so you may think I forgot this too, but I remember everything, except for the things I don’t remember. It was nighttime, I was in a place like home and there was a dog. I remember the room was mint-green, imagine the color of a Tiffany’s box and then add a little more green to it. The air-conditioner’s temperature set to 18 degree, and frosted bedroom windows. I’m pretty sure it was summer, because why else would the A/C be on? I’ve spent so many days in that room, it’s hard to recall what season it was outside.

 It was so long ago I can hardly remember, but of three things I was certain of (then), lemon iced tea with chicken nuggets, foolproof hideouts to accompany my smoking habit and my ignorance to the weather. How you thundered upon me that day was a memorable storm.

The intensity of your roar dampened my foundation but you rain unto me till I was buried with exhaustion. The adrenaline I heard pumping through your veins when you yelled out I am the almighty sky, let me return and I’ll give you a ride back to hell. The pleasure you found showing me my place, digging into the deep reaches of my insecurities, and piling up heaps of rudimentary stereotyping because you couldn’t handle your drinks and need to take a piss.  Like every other sad, cliché eighty’s Bollywood movie where alcohol is excuse for displaced anger. I swear I was frightened for a minute. I was never as tall as you, never as wide, and I never had quite so many shades of blue to decorate myself with. I am an alchemist and I make things glow, I polish them to look like stars but better, mine don’t shoot and combust just to add to your glory. 

Perhaps you thought I was a star, I see your confusion, considering I twinkle too for I am polished. I don’t blame you for your lack of perspective, you’re stuck! Stuck above us all where no one can remind you of your cloud-coated ignorance and star-studded vanity. If I don’t shine like you want me to, I’m doing it wrong?  I write this in metaphors because I know you’re too dense to ever understand I’m talking about you, but I am an alchemist and I only use fire to mold not to destroy. 

viti mittal