The gardener told me a little about the family who lived here before me. He doesn’t like talking about it, but I could tell something happened just before they moved out.
Nothing much new to report. ‘Cept I’ve taken to making craft out of everything I can find. My last project was a kite. I wish I could fly.
Squeaking, I move back and forth
While staying in the same place,
I’m ticklish unless oiled up,
Or carrying a certain something
Wedged into the right spot.
_ _ _ _
The heavy rains seem to be subsiding. Too bad. I really enjoy this kind of weather. When I can. I’m kept busy indoors these days. Jailed by private Hindi tuition. I don’t know if they’re worth it. Will I remember what I’m learning two years from now? I can’t get past learning how to read and write. Does it really matter that I can’t understand a word? Because I don’t want to. I don’t want to make sense of what they’re saying.
Even when I can’t hear their voices, it’s hard to walk down the corridors without the weight of knowing that I don’t belong. Maybe I’m just carrying too many books.
Your next clue has been boxed in
And I’m the one holding it hostage.
Remember, when you reach into my depths,
Just when you think you’ve hit the bottom,
There is one more layer to be found.
_ _ _ _ _ _