A sliced apple lay on the kitchen counter, already brown from prolonged contact with oxygen. And next to it sat an upright canvas; paint spilled across it in joyful aggression, and a torn corner. As if somebody had left in a hurry, maybe after having received a phone call. Out of uncontrollable eagerness or some unfortunate tragedy, one could not tell. Outside, a lanky boy, ran as fast as his knobby knees would carry him, flowers in hand and a shiny wrapper in tow, the smell of daisies trailing. There had been better days to be wrong, But never a wrong day to try to be right. His crooked teeth had been chewing on time for too long. Today, it was time to run.

She walked briskly; sharp sounds on the paved floor. Turned left on to a narrow, dingy alley, and was startled a little to find a reflection in the glass windows of the corner shop staring back at her. Wind kissed hair, chapped face, eyes wet with unshed tears and unbuttoned coat. But she had flowers in her hat.
Yellow daisies.

She paused for a bit, and thought about the art of forgetting; About rusted monkey bars; covered with moss because of lack of use, left to dry in the winter sun. It was part of the gruelling and obsessive scrutiny of everything that came under her nose that she had recently taken up; inspecting life with a microscope in hand. She started to climb up the steps, and then suddenly exhausted, knelt down, feet covered with shadows.
In her sober sadness, she thought yet again of all the promises she had made over the years. Mostly, life was these untraceable patterns of simplicity but it was clear that everyone knew that promises came from fear.  Fear of those crests of marvellous elation and the troughs of colossal disappointment.  And this bumpy ride of uneven highs and lows left her slightly bruised.
As she unlocked the door and stepped inside, her gaze was drawn to the dress lying on the rug, half spilling out of the gift wrapped packet she had received it in. It almost brought a smile to her face. Unwrapping that gift, she had in a flash of thought, felt like she was unwrapping darkness. And the seven lined poem on the clumsily torn yellow paper, eloquent in its desire to wrench her away from the wedge of unmoving, unflinching stone that she was driving herself into.   

Maybe there was no ending to be had. She was only half an inch away from sleep now. In a hide and seek world, if the answers hid, what was so wrong in seeking unrealities? Lying beside the box, dress in hand, she drifted off into slumber; asleep in the criss-crossing of swaying, flickering thoughts – the frivolous and the grave and finally dreams – the great leveller.