My impulse to call you to tell you about my toothache (yet another attempt by my wisdom teeth to sprout- its imminent failure is rich, creamy, contextual irony) was what drove home how much you mean to me. You’re the one I call when I want to talk about the ingrown toe nail, the troubling gas, the rasping relations, the annoying colleagues.

You don’t know how much I used to feel. I would spend days in forcefully induced slumber rather than be awake to the inside of my own head. I would walk from tuitions back to Golpark so immersed in musings that I seldom noticed things around me. That was almost ten years ago. Now I moved like a vampire, drinking in life from around me- attracted to sights, bemused by sounds, wallowing in smells.

I think of you in snapshots. Your beautiful teeth. Your graceful limbs. Your lingering affection. Methinks I was prescribed you to jolt me out of my self-absorption. In that case, you were prescribed me to touch base with harsh reality.