Archit Gouda

I am from tides, turbulence, and Saturday morning Taco Bell.

From the midmorning light seeping through the tree cover, a secluded swing set awash with light.

I’m from the long-gone battles of yore,

waging war against my enemies within a woodchip warzone; the wooden sword I hold but an extension of my arms.

I’m from rich, creamy, al dente pasta and headphones, From Aliva and Manoj. From late nights strumming my guitar, welcome roughness from finger to string contact Warm tones permeating the room with a palpable aura of peace.

I am also from frigid nights, from the sharp, stifling smell of gasoline intertwined with smoke. Razor-sharp spikes of cold piercing through my skin, chilling me down to the bone.

From darkening skies smothered with water-laden clouds, torrents of rain pelting me in fury. The keening screech of tires from a school bus jaggedly grating at my ears. I saw the cheerful canary yellow exterior of the bus, breaking the dreary atmosphere like that of a white flag raised in surrender.

I’m from Hunter’s Ridge and Ganga, from chewy aromatic chicken curry and saccharine-sweet hot cocoa, and from eyes glistening with tears left unshed.

Within the backyard garden was my father’s David Austen. Shimmering with dew, engulfed within the glistening rays of an overhead sun; a radiant beacon of elegance a cut above the rest.

Yet in the end, I am from pen and paper. From countless worlds out of my grasp. From songs and stories cascading within the tumultuous waters of my thoughts.