Two small pale white bowls, shaped like revealing oysters - each had a pink glistening pearl in it. The oysters had a pink aura arising from them, orange stains silhouetted the pearls to build an eye-catching contrast. A yellow-orange little shell, with some greenish moss-like stains, lay in the rough sand dunes, full of multicoloured particles here and there. Little protruding stones -blue, green, yellow, pink and white - lay scattered in an artistic fashion around the oysters and the shell. When touched, the texture feels coarse, yet soothing to the soul; when you open your eyes and behold the delicate assortment, the dull yet colourful sight adds to the serenity you experience. No, I'm not meticulously describing a seashore; these are just the four sides and edges of a little photo-frame that I treasure.

The frame encloses my secrets, fantasies and numerous other small wishes that never came true. The frame hangs on the wall, next to the curtains that I usually never draw apart. Whenever my eyes notice the frame on a casual day, my fingers will have to reach out to touch and feel it's appeasing unevenness. Then I remove it off the supporting hook and press it close to my wounded heart. I somehow hear a sandstorm inside me, the howling winds carrying a massive cloak of stinging spears of little sand particles. It approaches you like a curtain of unbearable pain - you have no choice but to let it engulf you. As if the deafening silence of the desert of helplessly painful loneliness wasn't an endurance afflictive enough; as if more trials of my patience had to be cleverly contrived - the storm being one of them.

I shed a drop of something that's more than just tears. It's more like a dying pool of hope within me, flushing out my angst. I feel incarcerated within the enclosure of the photo-frame and the claustrophobic feelings that it houses. I struggle every single day to get out of it. I can often see a thin ray of inspiring light streaming through the edges of the frame: I know what exactly needs to be done to be able to follow that lit tunnel that'll definitely culminate to my tranquil freedom. But I'm just not being able to - I don't know what's obstructing me. I crave to smile with just not the eyes and lips but to feel the happy warmth of my smile even if for a brief instant. I do not want to repeatedly die in the pain that imprisons me now.

My single tear drop spreads and expands into a river - that promises to bring some peace and joyful life to the desert within. For a moment it seems as if I see some dew drops on my photo-frame as my wet exhausted eyes stare at it; a gush of memories sting my heart. I recall those moments when I bought it - it wasn't just any random photo-frame that you find. It was a handicraft by the visually impaired. I reminisce those vivid moments of happiness I felt when I carefully wrapped it with light green paper and wrote "Happy Birthday" on it in my best handwriting. I remember the sheer disappointment and the frown on my face when the wrapped present wouldn't squeeze through the narrow slit of his school mailbox; and I had to pass it to him via a mutual acquaintance. I recall the day my hostel staff called me to collect a parcel from their office and I was overly thrilled with expectations of some surprise from home. I was struck with surprise when one of the staff wished me 'happy birthday'. I perfectly remember the way I stood in aghast at the sight of the same wrapped gift. My scribblings on it had been overwritten on in careless indifferent haste- with dark black bold letters - which read my name. From a distance it seemed to read the letters of the word 'HATRED' rather. I recall how I ran back to my room carrying the returned treasure; and later lay for hours sleepless, hiding my tear-stained face in my pillow. My silent questioning screams echoed and filled the air. My inaudible wails resounded intermittently. I never found the answers.

All these haunting memories of burning incidents repeat themselves. They seem to happen again, though in a fraction of a second right after I touch the curio, and I go through the same mixture of emotions. The deja vu exhausts me. I put it back on the wall where it had been. I sometimes have to fight the irresistible urge to discard or destroy it with the wish that it would delete those hurtful scars forever. But then I think of the blind person - the anonymous maker of this piece of art, the unbelievable effort that he might have had to put behind this. My undying reverence and admiration for the artist stop me. I haven't put any photo inside that frame that already holds a lot of painful memories within. The photo-frame displays a card that ironically reads: "Laughter is Inner Jogging." The memento smiles back at me, encourages me to laugh and let it absorb all my anguish of grief. Therefore I still have it. :D