In middle of somewhere

In the middle of somewhere, transitioning between the flights or metros, 

In the middle of strangers, rubbing off my time,

I look for a known face, in a hope of emergence from nowhere 

I see no recognisable textures of a dead eye, I feel the chaos of incoherent voices of the callings 

The space irks me because of asymmetry, the time detest me of my wandering thoughts 

I want to pick up a bit of me before I leave for another destination

A bit of baggage to be left behind for a new arrival. 

As I see the flex reading impossible is nothing, I write another letter knowing the destination no longer exists. 

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Earlier, I found a note embedded in my social handle. It was as encrypted as my past.  I read it again and again till I could decipher all the metaphors into meaningful words. From the blog titles to the destinies, I could relate each word meant to be read.

There are certain phases of life when language evolves with age. I remember us, chatting in smaller vowels to save text charges. and then there was an era when every sentence used to have a double intended meaning. And now we converse with coded metaphors.

They say good communication is a key to healthy relationship. If the relationship is not sustainable, let the communication be open. let the language evolve with age. Hearsay, I mean the mental age.

Home 

Four years back, I moved out of the house, I used to call home. I moved into another apartment and again after three months I had to switch another one. Three months and three shifts later, I thought, finally it’s my home.  

But the four walls of huge building could not contain my soul to it satiety. I never found peace even after 3 years and 9 months later. I own the place yet I hesitate to call it home. 

Currently I am in hometown. We call it hometown because the town occupies my childhood home. There was a time, I had cravings to visit it once in a while. Now, it no more appeals me. The childhood memories have faded to dust, the facade of town has changed to digital world, school friends have moved to other cities. The town is no more familiar and the home nor cozier. 

I am not shelterless, that I am pretty sure. Many roofs to live beneath. Good friends to embrace life. But Home, perhaps is no more a sigh!! 

Have I become a wanderer??? 

I believe No. 

A home, is neither bound with walls nor covered with a ceiling. It’s a rest I can lie in comfortably feeling secured and warmer. I remember those days, when home was lying in your arms, listening to your deep breaths with the unbound heart beats. 

I may not be born for a home grown aged. But in my last wish, I ask a tomb next to your grave. That would be a home before the final departure from the sunshine. 

Untrained pain

There are two kinds of pain. 

One, which transforms you completely as you pass through it. It makes you a strong man. A personality which can outlive the survival predictions of previous one. 

Other, which is constant, monotonous and never ending. At times it becomes dull and boring. No matter how hard you try to survive it, relapses are frequent. I call it suffering. 

The ones who emerge out of pain lead a successful and utilarian life while those who succumb to it, become victim of time and oneself. There may be a conditioning of phantom limb, but the phantom pain is indeed a produce of untrained mind. 

The last spring 

There is a crack in my ceiling. Every night I watch it over before falling asleep. I remember all its leads, angles and curves. 

The crack reminds me of you. The gentle curves of your waist bending into slime pelvis. I remember the leads of your collar bone leading me up high to your neck raising your goosebumps. The angles of your lips with ample cheeks enlightening my heart as ever. I can still imagine when nights were far more adventurous than these days. 

In a passing spur, I cherish the harmony of our breaths we had together. It’s not time I value, it’s not the memories I keep in my chest but the synching of souls ever happened. 

The eleventh winter is on the shore. I may need some warmth. I see, the age is no more empathetic to me. Before the age could catch up I want a last spring. The spring I had long ago. 

The third of September

It was a fine Sunday of lazy September a few eleven years ago. The date is etched on my heart as is your name. As the day approaches near, it brings the thrill of joy and agony in all shapes. The joy of celebrations, fancy dinners  or a movie. It’s the day, when sun settled only to bring moon out of my heart. The love bloomed from a barren frozen lake of desperate winters. It’s the day, when I felt alive.

As few days are remaining for the dare date, my heart is sinking with the feelings of hollow crumps of betrayed, battered and lonely nights.

Recently, there was a dialogue in the movie I was watching intently. “People stay together because they don’t forget but tend to forgive”.

I spent four years in a zest to forget the fragile past, yet success was unseeingly fair. There were nights, when I prayed to God, to help me forget you; so the pain could subside but all went in-vain. The pain has become dull, boring, never ceasing to stop. I am tired of efforts I passed in, to forget the apathy of condemned love. The zeal of ever sustaining pain overrides the drive of my persistence.

After that movie, I realised; what if amnesia is not a solution but forgiveness? Yet the question awakes from beneath, whom should I forgive. You, myself or the time we spent together?

For, I love you freely. I need to free myself from the pain of love. Let one more year to come and I explore the aspects of forgiveness as it is said, forgiving is not as easy forgetting.

For the day, I will once again bake a cake

For memories are fresh

For love is alive

For you exist in me.

Ample shades of blue

My wardrobe is full of blues. From a variety of t-shirts to jeans, they are all in shades of blues. 

My sister often complains that I only wear few of reds I own, in my ballroom classes. She hasn’t seen me in any other colour than red during classes. 

How does colour calls me? May be they reflect the shades of my mood. When I am in my dance classes, I feel full of energy, I feel gushed with a shoulder relived of the stress. 

The blues reflect the state of calm I bear at my work. They represent my individuality. The integrity I hold to enable me survive the wrath of reality. 

But the right shade of blue, is the my beautiful kind of blue. It’s the blue of my face, when I see you unexpectedly. The beauty so radiant that I forget to breathe in for the moments you pass by near me. 

I remember the blushes when I used to think about you. And the cynasosis when I seldom see you in the rush.  

Whatever shades of life come through, I enjoy both reds and blues. I may not have more of reds but they are my beautiful blues.