The Great List Maker

Growing up, list making is the only thing I have ever done systemically to be proud of.
All around my desk, the walls would be covered by that wonderful yellow colour with bits of plaster winking here and there. I would make lists about anything imaginable.
Chapters to finish.
Snacks to buy.
Books to read.

When I started medical school, I would make lists rotating around my text books. The back page of my notebook started to resemble an angry teacher's blackboard.
Parts of Medulla.
Synthesis of Cholesterol.
Inner Ear.

Things started getting out of hand when these lists covered my entire desk. I admitted it was OCD. My conscious brain somehow seemed to slip out of my grasp and hence, my fingers controlled everything.

One day, I took down all the lists covering my place. I tore down the yellow bits one by one, even though I could hear them calling me. It was the result of the great list making that I could hear voices now.
Cat calls.

Do you know how unhealthy it is for your fingers to tear up 100 pieces of unstickable paper into tiny shreds?
Paper cuts.
Aching joints.
A torn nail.

Hence, the great list maker is no more. I am unhappy to state this fact to you, ladies and gentlemen. It is indeed a great sorrow to lose something that enables us to jot down points and eradicate confusion.
Death of a legacy.
Invisible lists.
Downtown sorrow.

Poetry by Nabeela Altaf
Read 928 times
Written on 2014-04-01 at 12:34

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Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Quite an intriguing narrative ending in the phrase 'downtown sorrow' which has a ring to it as though relating to a greater theme implied obliquely.