Pramveer Singh
Writing that feels human before it feels perfect.
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My Legs Are in the Present
"Where are you?" someone asked me.
I was confused.
Where am I?
I looked up at the sky. Why does it look so clear today? There are no clouds above me. The blue feels so close that I could touch it if I jumped high enough.
For a moment, it feels like I am living in the future.
Then something hits my heart.
I remember the cakes my mother used to bake. My nose knows that smell for sure.
My heart starts beating faster, like I am running beside my father, who is no longer here.
My nose catches the scent of rain from my village—that old, familiar smell I loved when I was little and foolish enough to believe moments lasted forever.
But my brain is busy calculating the possibilities of tomorrow.
Soon, I realize that all my parts are pulling me in different directions, fighting each other for time.
My hands reach for my neck, trying to drag me back to the present, but they don't help much.
The only thing that remains here is my legs, buried in the ground beneath me.
So I think:
My legs are in the present.
My heart is in the past, alongside my nose.
My eyes are looking toward the future, guided by my restless brain.
One hand reaches backward, the other forward.
And my throat is thirsty for the only thing standing right in front of me—
the present.
So I answer her:
The nose loves the smell of the past.
The mouth tastes the future and speaks too early.
The heart still walks beside the nose.
The brain runs toward something it hasn't seen yet, and the eyes are already there, searching for things that haven't happened.
And my legs—
my legs are buried in the present.
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