Fragrance of that land

I sit here on the 50 cm high stool, standing every other minute to make sure the lines of unimportance and disinterest reach closest to their accurate measurements on the paper. My parallel bar, the one which I would have lost by the next exam, and my hands help me decide that the cabinet in kitchen should be placed 1.5 m above the ground. With the much fancied red earphones plugged in and the latest rhymes of drama, I am still in a world where everything is not so boring as described earlier. So what if it all is just a part of my imagination, the only thing I have experienced for myself, to have a speed competent with the speed of light.

No part of me is paying attention to anything going around me. I do not know the girl sitting diagonally opposite to me is crying over her lost circle master, or the one beside her just threw a banana peel outside the classroom window, there is no one singing out loud, so loud that I hear it despite the drums being played literally within my ears. They call it cherry on the top and I, a sweater in the class when sunlight falls on you like a fat lady, slid in her evening gown, sitting elegantly on the dining table full of everything she could think of. No, gluttony is not her sin, its now her character.

I am trying to regain my calmness, the one which would take me back to the illusionary but loved world of day-dreams. My eyes close, I breathe in, as if to breathe in the loved fragrance. This loved fragrance of the classroom, which is brightly lit with fine white drawing boards, the conditioned air to give me just the cool I need, the glass windows which never open and still let the sunlight it. The class where they don't wear bright colours but the whites within the indigos. The classroom where I met the Hs and 2Bs. The place where I discovered that those set squares from primary school geometry boxes indeed have a purpose to serve. The place where I first used the Rotring. Not only did I unlock my brain's side meant to imagine the orthographic but also met the cycloid, the helix and  thin as it is, the washer between nut and bolt too!
But how much does it all matter today, now? Tiny bit. Enough to be remembered and written of here. But what still calls for is the fragrance. A fragrance which I know, I remember existed. But also the fragrance I am now devoid of. Its no metaphor but a true play of psyche. The one existing is memory and the one no more is a part of yearning. Yearning for the fragrant land, the whole of it, every moment been there, every breeze breath in, every stroll, every ride, every dream seen there whose becoming true has made this a mere memoir.