The dot from the fables.

We’re talking about a dot here.

There exist the hollow dots and the filled dots in this world.
The hollow ones like to sit on their own edge and look at other dots. They walk over and converse.
The filled ones like to stay indoors. They mix with themselves, like milk does in coffee. And when there’s coffee, there’s conversation.

The dot can label, point and enlist.
It can be a city, a state or a country in the kingdom of cartographs.
It can be the point where x and y draw a consensus.
It can be where the compass places its stable leg and pirouettes.
It can be the third point under a subheading which carries one whole mark.
It can be the runway of the airport from where an artists idea took flight.
It can be you; when the arrow pointing at it says ‘YOU ARE HERE’.
It can be an accidental blot on a skirt that carries a moment in its’ fist, an inside joke, a work of art.
These are all filled dots and have always stood for something important.

Although they say, ‘It’s just a dot. Nobody will notice.’ -
We, are talking about a dot here, and IT IS important.

This dot is white and beautiful. The same white as its’ foster home- the paper. It’s true to its’ roots.
It stands out as all the other dots are black.
They were mostly hollow dots originally. Some were alike, others worked on being alike; and in the process they filled themselves in (black nailpaint identity). You could see it- the blacker black of their boundary.
So they clotted together to make a sea of black. They were happy like that, and glue starts drying up when it sees you happy.
They lost their secret lottery ticket which god gives each being he makes.
They became the background.
The background on which our white stood. Neat, round, clean and crisp.

The dot won all the lotteries- her own and those of the others. It couldn’t see gods’ effort being insulted.
Its’ name was seen on the books given away as prizes.
It was sought after and consulted- as it was the only one still in touch with paper.

We’re talking about a dot here. A crisp white dot.
An epicentre whose tremors are seen by a few, whose impact is chewed by a few.

No ink was used to make it, but it left a blot on the page that followed it.
And the page will never see the enamel white fluid, I promise.
That blot, I call, My Dot.

theylocution. wemulation.

It’s as if the universally accepted expression for THE emotion when it’s at its’ max is ‘I love you’.

As if the makers don’t realise that males can’t use that expression with their male friends, for some reason which I already know is supremely lame.

As if everybody is everybodys’ relative.

As if it is easy to say it to your relatives.

As if we’ve all not seen it in the movies, that people keep a slap hidden under their sleeve.

As if they don’t realise that they made it difficult to say, even when the emotion has been felt for a long time.

As if they don’t remember doing THAT on purpose.

As if they don’t realise that the phrase is one cliche which is really hard to avoid.

As if they’re pretending that the conference that banned the making of an alternative phrase never took place.

As if THEY never said it for the first time.

They gloat and rub their hands in glee like the bad guy from our bedtime stories did, so that we knew that he was the bad guy.

They watch us twitch as we try being indirect.

They follow us around the bush and out so that they don’t miss it when it happens.

They’re looking now as I’m trying to say bad stuff about them.

“Yes, I know thats a point in your bag.”

But then, they’re popular. They have a bustling showroom. And I was and am one user of their product.

I don’t find it difficult to say ‘I love you’ but then I do.
I think that was the crux of all this jangle I created.

But then if you knew THAT, you ought to have guessed the rest.

“Oi! Were you watching?”