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When I moved away from home for freedom and such

I hadn’t fully fathomed all that it will beget

While I didn’t get freedom, any

I have built worlds inside worlds

And I survive in the inner-most, of those

Never venturing out into even the penultimate

Shrinking smaller, every month, every day

Is that not the opposite of freedom

It is, I believe, time to think about home again

Familiar towns, that haven’t ceased to be 

Although changes have overwhelmed home as well

Its soul would be incorruptible, so I assume

Back home, I can yearn for freedom too

Unfettered by fears of never being free

Can wallow in honesty, in defeat, in poverty and in failure

Because why fail in a foreign land

When I can fail within the intimate boundaries of home

Thinking of summer sand dunes

Endless rain, slush streets

Scents of early November blossoms

Sparkling toe rings in salty rivers

Dancing shadows of needy children, feeble traffic 

Floating poems, sinking earthen idols

Smitten in nostalgia, drenched in memories 

In a home devoid of ladders, I could just be. 

Lounge

When I travel alone, and I normally don't, I think of you. 

It has something to do with my mind experiencing a void between errands. Not in cabs, of course. Cabs make me nauseous. But when I take the train alone I think of you. 

It's startling, how, after so many moons, you still effortlessly waft back into my thoughts. You perhaps are waiting on the fringes. Forever. I haven't been able to sequester you. Train of thought is surprisingly continuous as well. 

The same happens when I fly alone. Airports that run endless and I end up walking kilometres within. Escalator after escalator. Wide corridors, advertising too bright for my eyes, strangers everywhere. It seems, upon throwing one glance at me, that I am walking with great purpose and urgency. But that's furthest from the truth.

I am all undone from within. My fabric of existence has become threadbare and your memories have penetrated and dishevelled any pretense of order, there was. After walking and walking, I glimpse at screens to course correct, if at all. But I am completely robotic and lost and operating at your disposal.

And then finally when I reach the lounge, the airport lounge that is shelter to lonesome travellers like me, I imagine, I would have you waiting there. My long lost lover. 

Misc: Visiting Cards

The compulsive introvert that I have come to be, for the umpteen reasons that have coaxed me to be so, I cannot make conversation anymore. Not atleast, the kind of conversation I deem to be a conversation. Thus, I have no friends. 

But I work a job. In which I am expected to have certain charisma. A chutzpah would certainly augur my situation here, but beggars can't be choosers. Anyhow, I am to deal with people all the time. I think that's a very basic ask from any job. But for me, it is enormous and taxing. I do not form bonds, my dealings are superficial mostly and I would like to say - transactional. No deeper aspect at all. I do not form any deeper connection with anyone because I am wholly incapable of it. I cannot speak one word extra than what is needed. And when I am not succinct, I go the extreme extent of mental torture that I inflict on myself. Since I am this way, nobody perceives me as friend material. Thus, I have no friends. 

But of those I meet for work, I keep their cards. Visiting cards. Name, where they work, email, contact number, other coordinates and blah. And I have a book of mine within whose polythene flaps I slide in these cards, not in any particular order and for no other purpose, but to look at months and years later. As my only record of human interaction.