Memory can free you sometimes. It's a tricky monster.
Here you are trying rigorously to walk out of a long gone love. Yearning for mighty consolation, anything. Anything at all. That could explain. In a quiet couple words, the rationale within the heart ache. Because you remember all the good stuff that love had gotten you.
Sometimes bad memory outlives good memory. But this time, good memory had erroneously outlived the bad one. As luck would have it. The heart cribs. And shrinks. Puts up ugly questions.
Then, one night, you are falling asleep. Exactly half way between being awake beginning to dream, your mind twitches, it unearths a painfull memory. Something you had subconsciously hidden, erased. And it's like God is peeking at you. Reason finds its rightful place. You feel lucky. Safe. Even, probably happy. Memory is one tricky monster.
[22:17, 05/02/2015] dnm~: You don't answer, or judge me. Just listen. I look back at myself from the future and I am afraid I will fill with regret. For the person I am becoming. So devoid of ambitions. Or any will power. I am postponing things at some pretext or the other. I will get to that later I tell myself. It's a better job or a better city.. I just keep saying tomorrow. I am afraid I will never start. I saw a kid drive in a Mercedes today. Six years ago that wud have given me a rush. Today I looked at him and felt pale. I am some mundane autorickshaw hopper standing at cross roads waiting. Some people, by standers.. Tell me that I have so much potential. Whatever the fuck I am doing here. And I say tomorrow. Writing, which I thought was my sole calling; I don't find the time and space to write. Nor do I get the right frame of mind. You read all this and you come up with a dozen ways to make things better. But come down and lets be losers tonite. If that's okay and gimme a hug. Tighty tight.
It begins as a small twitch at the temples. You don't even feel it until it gets bigger. And stronger. It, like a shrewd monster spreads to the rest of your head. It attaches to the back of your neck, refusing to budge. You pull your hair, like some insane woman. It doesn't go. Instead, it couples with all the lost shine in your life, absolutely anything and everything that isn't working out, which includes almost entirely everything, and blows into your face. That it's gonna sit on your head for hours and days, and that you may do whatever you want about it. You rustle through your bag to check for that lost bottle of balm. It's gone. Then you go looking for the pills. But the damn store was closed. Prolonged lunch break. It's only you who can't eat. You sit holding your head in your hands. You put your head down on the table, nothing subsides. You wonder if the power of your glasses has changed, whether it's that time in a decade when you should see the optometrist? Remember last summer when you stepped on your spectacles in his car and they got twisted. He took to the shop where you had bought the spectacles, but the guy could un-twist only this much. So probably these repetitive migraines are because you are looking at the world through twisted glasses. Or it could be because you had a late lunch a few days ago? You would never know. You would never no. You can't watch TV. You start crying. You throw things in the air. Suffocate yourself with a pillow and fall asleep. Somehow. And the first thing you feel in the morning; is that migraine.
You and more.
I could as well, lose myself.
Like a bee out of a bear's mouth.
In a snapshot, of continuum.
Like a particle of vacuum.
I paint a sorrow picture of loss.
Of departure, of delirium
If I don't talk.
As a child,
I assumed, I was a poem.
Comprehended to the one,
Who was adept enough to read.
Someone, who atleast knew the words
But it ain't that.
No man's too pedestrian
You've gotta sell, everything.
Nothing stands unquoted. Goddamn.
So talk, I must. F!