Ponder.

It has been a long day. I deep cleaned my pantry. It is a thing that needs to be done on a regular basis to boast of a livable house. Which brings me to discovering that everything is life needs maintenance. Just last month, the uniform array of pearl pet jars got second glances from my visitors whenever the pantry door was opened to retrieve loose tea or cardamom. Then, the piling up starts. Piling up of numerous grocery bags, fruit baskets, ziploc covers and cereal boxes. they elbow out each other to avoid getting suffocated in the clutter. Till I take pity on them one day and clear them all to the recycling bin.

I hate the junk mail this country generates. Piles and piles of cheap and expensive, dull and colorful paper struggles and forms creases in that congested mail box. The pile falls into a pair of hands and goes through a detailed sort. Most of it ends up in the collecting draw of the paper shredder that runs mercilessly and rips the paper apart like it is de-stressing itself from the sight of that junk mail. The shred reincarnates itself into a pile of a collage like paper grass. The recycling bin gets a sprinkling of this color like a cupcake gets ostentatious with a heap of those brightly hued edible sprinkles. My feet contrast the green grass as I walk back on the lawn after dumping a tree that reluctantly transforms itself into paper that fails to grab my attention with its bold and enticing advertisements. I walk back with a heap of thoughts crossing my mind like the heap in the recycling bin. None of those thoughts stand out. They just linger there, and replace themselves with more idle thoughts that overlap on one another like the waves from an ocean.

Sometimes I wonder what would be left of this planet for my little girl if every toy I buy for her comes with layers of Styrofoam, plastic and paper entwined in plastic laden metal wires that chip my manicure as I try to free the toy from its iron clutches. The pile heaps on the side of the toy looming sarcastically at the size of the object it protected. My feet contrast the grass again on one of their many trips to the large but always full recycling bin, thoughts scrambling madly and aimlessly, collapsing into a nothingness.

Left overs sometimes turn into science projects in the fridge. They end up in the belly of an overweight sumo wrestler of a waste basket which thrives with all the intake. A thought crosses my mind again. Back home left overs never make it to the fridge. They end up in tummies of stray animals on the street.
Thoughts wander in the grey cells, resonating when the waves bounce back from the walls of the brain. A flash of the little black boy in a distant African village comes to the mind as the sometimes fresh food hits the abyss of the waste basket.

Some ways things work. I fail to understand :- (