It could be those rusty nails for all you care. Why would you care?
All of us must be having different kinds of rusts, it is something which we start building when we step right out and only we, solely we are responsible for building up the rusty rust for ourselves. It could simply be the rust that our little versions loathed- the rusted iron rods of the monkey bars which would make our little hands sore. Back then, our soul was as soothing as a freshly painted brand new swing but the souls around had a rusty approach. That is where we first sensed what moisture of these rusted souls could do. The moisture held the power to seep through our delicate souls, and I think it did. This is the right time where I must state a possibility for you to ponder over. Maybe the moisture did not have power, maybe it only had a dominating presence, a commendable space. And maybe, our souls were not delicate but only a bit weakened due to prolonged exposure.
The second of the infinite versions of the rustiness, I bring to you the version most talked about and least thought about. It goes down to biology. What do our eyes see? More like, what do we want our eyes to see? If I could alter the biology and make white look black and black look white, I would not. Because it still would make no difference. What we want our eyes to see is different from what our eyes really see, maybe this is one of our rusts, you know it always comes back to the rust. Anyway, I’m talking about the rusty color. Let me make it golden, let me make it black, silver, orange, white and the other million lab colors but there it is. The rusty color remains rusted.
This one that I’m about to state would be the last because really, I cannot make you follow my rusted thoughts for too long. I own a rusted ring. I bought it around 5 years back from a street shop and the people I know think I’m too insane to carry it around everywhere. Maybe it is too cheap for their Swarovski stuff or maybe I’ve unimportant obsessions. I bought it from a really really really old woman with a hunched back. I remember she was standing beside her black trunk arranging the 12-15 items she had on the same black trunk. Nobody stopped to look at what she sold because there were more than just stones and rusted metal selling everywhere around her. I had spent a lot of time searching for what I wanted but I had not come across a thing that would make me stop. And then I stopped. It was something about that woman, her grace and her weakness. It was something about the rusted ring and the 15 items that lay on the small black trunk. It was just something much more.
If you’ve reached here, soon you’ll know your own rusted story. And I say think more, and more until the moment you think its enough, the moment you think it’s getting a bit too rusty, stop. And. I will stop.