Faraway

Years ago, on a quiet bylane
Next to a tree where cherry blossomed
There was a house
But more than house, there was
A garden,
Like an untended jungle

Adjacent trees of wildflowers
Stood in between unscathed wilderness
A solo white chair
Sat amongst them all
Rusty and rickety, that chair
Barely white actually

From between its legs,
Rose a creeper
With lotus leaves
And purple, clitoria like flowers,
Only denser
And purple-er

The nectar of that flower,
Or if you crushed its petals,
Squeezed it into your mouth
Made a rare potion
It chose your priciest memory
And erased it

Tonight, get me that nectar
Wontcha, wontcha, apple pie
I need to forget,
More than I need to live
So run, run already
Back in time and fetch from Faraway

The Couple by the Lake

It was an intense moment. Like a moment inside a moment.

We sat on a bench by the lake. City lights reflected on the black water. Nearly mesmerizingly. But there was nothing romantic about it. We were both deeply bothered, I guess.

We had a rule. One smoke per night, strictly. One each that is. Sharing a smoke would be too intimate. His black polythene bag was between us on the bench. It had his drink for the night. I would have a swig from it before we walked back to our rooms. Sometimes, two or three. 

There was a girl he loved deeply. She had recently been married off to another man and had been shipped abroad. She still loved him back. That so rebellious love of the early twenties. He had heard her voice after weeks, he was almost too benumbed to speak. He had told me about her earlier though. About how they had met and fallen in love at the place they worked. And how vehemently her parents had opposed the match, and so on. Their love had been obsessive-compulsive. 

Not the milder poetic version, but serious life endangering love that. I wasn't aware of such love myself back then. I only came to know of it later when I fell into it myself. Some mind-fucking, nerve-wrecking shit that. 

But back then, I was in a different kind of a love. With another man, who was as far away as far away could be. Victimized by my repetitive tendency to fall for unavailable men. That was young-vulnerable love. The love of cards and roses. And preferably, low sugar chocolates as well. 

One thing we had in common was that we had both been equally sequestered by the ones we had loved. And that pain was enough to make us sit side by side with the lake and with its shimmering lights on back water. Every night, for as long as it took for us, individually and together, to gather our heartbroken selves and walk back to our rooms. A strange camaraderie that. 

Somethings needn't be explained. This, needn't even be touched. Years have gone by, now all that remains is a faded memory of two jaded beings by the lake. Almost wiped clean, it is sometimes recovered to remember, so many loves since then, so many heartaches since then. But I can still recall the taste of the ice-cream he treated me with afterward, to snap me out of whatever depression that was. Dark chocolaty chocolate with cream, yes. And no, not sugar free. 

Residual Love

This time, as I haven't written the usual sadlove Valentine post, allow me to put in whatever remains, the residue of love. Plain and quiet, the following is some rant about a couple of couples I know. 

There's this two people. They met through an arranged marriage set up. You know how that works. I've got nothing for the uninitiated. They must have however immediately fallen in love with each other. Because down the line when one of the parent parties tried to pull out even after they had been duly betrothed, they stayed put. And said they would marry each other and each other only. Such balls. Where do you get those. 

Then there's this other couple. Technically never a couple, because they were never together. So they are more like a couple of people, a man and a woman, outside your orthodox understanding of the term. They came across when she was on the fading end of an on and off fling with another man who shall perennially shadow her life forever with his betrayal. And he was a lot more like just a shoulder to lean upon rather than a whole man. No, she didn't use him. Nobody uses anybody. We are at the even ends of the deals we crack for ourselves, we are all equally awake. But they didn't last, her crying session was over before he could knock her down with his love. She found someone else. And that was that. But till today, he bugs her in the oddest of ways. Like sending reminders of what they lost out on. After random intervals of time. Sometimes all these acts of nostalgia don't even involve him, it's like she has imagined a decent half of them.

Also, there's this third couple. Last couple for the day, I swear. They are supposedly in love, the real one. The passion is mostly past. They are with each other only when they are with each other. Like physically, right beside, behind locked doors. Otherwise they are not. They are singular beings of what each is worth. In their own, non-overlapping worlds. Of different people and different passions. Pretty much like strangers outside of the sphere of their knowing. And, they are learning to be at peace with this existence, as I write. As I think, as you read. Together, yet apart. 

But then again, what kind of love is that. Huh. 

Settling Down

The mind wants something tangible now. Tan-gi-ble. To smell touch and feel. To lather up in foam, watch. Some definite matter the way physics defined it. Long long time back in school books, when the heart hadn't learnt to yearn, yet. Pleasures were unknown. And we waited to age. Our lives to ripen. Now that our minds aren't pink no more, and we have chased half our lives away chasing, the vague, the non-existing, the intangible, it dawns upon our silly dwarfed psyches that, everything was a lie, all that was a waste of time, hope and even imagination. So now not that we regret that we half lived our youths by whiling it away in bitter-sweet waiting, we just sulk. And break down within sulks and sigh wanting to have a relapse to the childish excuse of pursuing our unreal dreams rather than settling for what's real.

You were an unreal dream, honey. I am completely over you now. I wish I was. But I believe I am already. Or may be not. What choice do I have, what choice have you left me with. Nothing. Zilch.

This is not poetic heart wrenching writing, but now I would rather have a different life. Of settling for what's real. And touchable. And not so vague. Real with faults. Not completely adorable, yet lovable. Not you, never you, but. It's all I have and I am happy. Or I should be. Or may be not. Who knows, who can tell. What choice do I have, what choice have I left myself with.

Blah blah blah. 

Once.

It was a winter afternoon, to the best of what memory tells me. Could've been winter or monsoon though. Or one of those days when it was just cloudy and the canopy of pine trees didn't let you see the sky. And it didn't matter if it was evening or afternoon still, the sun set at 4 pm.

Had been trying to get a cab on the way back from solitary lunch. You know how hard it is to get cab in that city. Almost impossible to find one that's going where you want to go. Almost as difficult as finding love. And then it began to hail. Yeah, you won't believe. Hail. Sheets of frozen rain hit everything on the road, all shops had their shutters down. There was no place to hide under. It was relentless. How perfectly I had forgotten my umbrella.

I almost pleaded a cabbie to take me back. He charged me thrice. Or so it sounded, I didn't have the time to calculate exactly how many times he was charging me over the usual. I got in and rolled up the glasses. My sweatshirt wouldn't suffice. Like I had gotten into that habit of stretching their sleeves to cover my palms. From the cold. I did just that, breathed in air, breathed out mist. And counted on the silence. That couldn't be broken. That had encapsulated me ever-since, I had begun craving for love. Dogmatically.

I had been hiding in my bag a neatly packed slice of cake. Chocolate fantasy. That I had coaxed myself to believe wouldn't twist and turn and spoil itself as the cab made numerous rides uphill and downhill. When I reached, the hail had stopped. It was cold still, I borrowed the umbrella from the gatekeeper and quietly walked till the stairs. There I must have paused for sometime, let myself be further disillusioned before finally tip toeing up.

I wanted to be quiet, like a sleeping child. Didn't want to be heard, didn't want to be a nuisance, or an intrusion. I knocked their door. I say their- they had begun living together past few months. Though people outside constantly talked of how much more they had been fighting after the moving in thing. Ironically, I believed in both, their firm love and the rumors that made rounds. Probably because it never mattered what I believed or felt or thought.

Put the cake on his table, I owed him one because I had lost some silly bet. Or something. And turned back to make a quick exit.

But turned back again and smiled, grinned. Seeing them together that way, huddled against each other under a blanket staring out the window, at the chaos outside having been settled. I felt peace. Love, once. I don't remember if I felt envy. Somehow, I can't remember walking out that door anymore.

From that moment till now, a lot had happened to me, with me. I haven't done much except write some 700 odd posts on this blog. Oddly enough, now..I don't feel the need to be in love anymore.

Fading out.

The afternoon sun welded into the odor of my broken heart. It was a Friday, after which the week would suddenly cease to be. Driving across and by half standing flyovers that had been coming up for months, I saw a man. Who wore sunglasses and hovered around a white Honda City and smoked. Who gave me a thumbs up as a negotiated a particularly clingy narrow patch of the road. I didn't know why though, but I completely ignored him. Later I found another a man who held the woman’s hand and helped her cross the road. I halted for them to pass by.

I had got blonde streaks done in my hair, as some kind of a coping mechanism. On Valentine’s day evening. Because I was expecting some big show down from my end. Loud anger, the confession of love, undying passion, and the bitter, the very bitter aftermath of being ignored and unloved. And I thought, a fresh look would help me distract myself. Better and faster. I wanted it to be fast. Because, I had been down that road more than a couple times now. Though I would do it if I just had to, but honestly I would appreciate some decisiveness in the whole fucking process of getting past.

The last conversation was unclear. I couldn't even remember his last words. I wasn't puzzled. Or anything. Or defeated. I was just quiet. Indifferent. Very far away. I don’t think I was even listening to what he had been saying for so long. All that felt like trivia.

I wasn't very sad anymore. Like a numbness had taken over. I know I sound like some bloody teenager when I write this way. But. I wasn't even devastated. Just disappointed. Because I knew from the very first day that I had known him that this moment was waiting, this exact moment when my house of cards will fall into itself. But hadn't ever let myself believe it really would. Therefore, mildly deeply disappointed.

And though I remembered none of his words. I distinctly remembered his tone. It was distant. Had no warmth. And was very unsure. But at the same time, very obvious and matter of fact. I should have hated him for that contradiction. But couldn't. I loved him.

Love comes a long way. From those initial lunges of insatiable insanity. Throughout months, converting into the mild emotion of mundane affection. Then that content complacency of assured company. Which then gradually, very unconsciously ends in, fading out. Into the background. Like it never existed.

It’s hard to imagine though, how could passion be over written by reason. But what can we do. A lot of factors are factored in, in the ignominy of that writing over. They say, distance is a huge one. They also say, you can’t be together if you don’t want the same things. Work, they say takes a huge toll on love. They say a lot of things. And we fall for those things. What can we do.

After home, I went away for an old friend’s wedding. And came across lots of people I had once known. Witnessed, how extraordinary love is celebrated with the most ordinary of arrangements. I heard the vows. Felt them somewhere inside. All of them. And now, despite that lack of warmth in his voice, that wanting different things, the toll of work, all the disapproving people around, and most significantly, despite myself, mine hadn't faded. I have fallen for him, further, by several inches and several feet.

With age, love gets deeper. I mean, but of course. Whatother way could it be. I may be talking about the sentiment towards one man in particular. Or towards many, in a destined chronological order. One man after another. But the love gets deeper. I suppose.
I hope I am making myself clear. Or, let me come again. You love the man you loved at twenty-six more over the man you desired at twenty-two. Is this true? Does love have something to do with age? Or is it just my self pity and consistent estrangement making it appear so. I could harbor a self- bias, but still I think. I believe, it gets harder to deal with heart-break with age. What's appaling is that, the contrary seems to be true.
Because you are expected to become more mature, thick-skinned, self-obsessed, pragmatic, faithless and blah with age. It's only natural. And hence, the loss of love, isn't techincally expected to affect you as much as it did when you were young. But no..
Somewhere inside, the hurt is getting deeper. The cut is reaching for your insides, as you speak. The ghosts of those x-s and y-s and z-s live inside your head now. Because, probably because, he was the one, who you had caught up with so late in life, who you were desperately clinging to for your happyness, and then shockingly it all broke down. Suddenly, there seem to be less fish in the sea. And desperate clinging feels criminal.
Also sometimes, you feel the man you are going love when you get twenty-six is the same as the man you were crazy about at twenty-two. This is exactly when you realise that that SOB has made a home inside of your skull. And that you're doomed. Amen!

Separated

And then there is that stage. The optional one. Not everyone sees it through but a few. Punctuation-wise it wouldn't be a comma, it's not a pause. Not a semi-colon, because I don't think so. Not a full stop at all, that would be too rude. And too un-affordable an assumption. It could be a conjunction of spaces. Because minds haunted by the said stage develop voids within.Or not. Sometimes it's not even a stage, it could last a forever. And it seems to last one anyway.

Talking about Separation. Lovers separated. Do you get how polished that sounds. We're not together. Not broken up. We're separated.  For now. For a while now. Could be a while longer. Or forever. But we're no more in love. Or may be we are. And we don't care. Because the by products of this affair are too much to take. And the stakes are high.

Also, there's no uncertainty. Only the nausea of a forced peace.

Punctuation-wise, this stage could be an ellipsis. We don't know what words to fill in anymore, so we hold the pen still and let the ink blotch into three dots. Inside our minds we keep asking, what else is there to say. Bewitched by this wordlesness, no one could say if there will be another shore. A few words after the ellipsis. Or some love that survived this separation...

The Fever Bird

A poet of repute writes about love. He mentions how he wakes up disturbed to the cries of the papiha in his garden, in the dead of the night. The lunatic bird sings in the midnight heat, without relief. Like a bone of pain is stuck in its throat. And our poet doesn't know sleep. He feels that the papiha is conspiring only against him, because there is no one else in the house awake. He looks out of his room, and can't trace the hidden bird. Its throttling cries split his heart apart. Those cries of pee-kahan, pee-kahan. Where is my love, where is my love. The poet christens this emotion as love. And tries to make me believe so.

Yet again, I have been lied to. Call me a man for having said this. But love is an extended mating-ritual. It's like fore-foreplay. At least this once, men are right. It's a terrible facade that love puts on, it cheats you for half a life. It's all about chemicals gone crazy in your brain. Some hormones out stepping their fucking limits. The same ones that ensure you get hair under your arms. That's about it. It's animal instinct. All that we suppose sets man apart from animals has been doctored to fill in books, to make people fantasize. And make this hunt for an okayish mate, a pink one after all. That's about it.

I saw a blind man and a blind woman. I don't know if I could impose our jargons on them. But they would have been objectionable had they not been blind. It was a public place, there were scores of people, like me, like you, who would but ogle at people who make out in public. But I couldn't find a term for them. I couldn't force any thought on what I saw. No one else was watching, so I could just stare on. Like an almost involved by stander. The woman was taking the man's hand and running it across her face, above her eyes, with almost all white and the squinted black, the dark circles around her eyes, her nose, the slightly hollow cheeks, and then his hands paused for a short breathtaking moment on her mouth, fingered gradually from the upper lip to the lower, like a beat of music. Then down to her chin and below her neck. There was a smile on the man's face. It was a like a mad man's. He must have been happy. So must have been the woman. Now I wonder, was that about it?

Poet in reference: Vikram Seth

The Soldier's Wife

You fight your own battles
I am the woman who waits home alone
Fighting a bigger battle

My emotions alter between
Sorrow and Anger

Sorrow
As I wait by this window
Giving myself false hope

Anger
Because you leave no trace
You take me as a given

I worry
For you, on the crests of mountains
In the cold and snow

Amidst gunshots
Smoke and death
When you forget me, for your purpose

I ain't as selfless, I
Want you all mine
Want you all mine

You don't wonder as I do
And weigh possibilities out of nothing
Alone in the dark

Aghast, all I do is wait

When you are all I have
And I still don't have you

Love may be unconditional
Wait isn't.
Isn't.

And everytime you return
To me
Wounded, and lost

I won't be here.

Pic Courtesy: $uch!

The only time when I am reminded I can still feel, anticipate, crave is when I walk across the road and expect to meet you coming from the other end. Lanky and grinning.

Else I am sternly indifferent, numb, uncaring, emotionally paralyzed.

I do not hate or love this state I am in. Though it's both better and worse than what I have been in. Because I have leaped over the zeniths of ecstasy when in love with you. I have also decayed in the filth of being lovelorn when you broke my heart. And I believe this state of being nowhere, being in between the two is much better than being tortured by such extremes. But sometimes it seems worse, because what is living worth if it is not for reaching these extremes and crossing them blindly for the beyond.

Also there is this constant awareness of a mammoth of suppressed sorrow within myself. The fear is that it still lives by the possibility of an eruption, a sudden one, anywhere, anytime. Things go out of my hands then. Now probably is one such time.

Switching between numbness and breakdowns, sometimes I experience this anticipation, this craving. This intermediate phase is independent of the past and the present. It's unaware of what has happened between us. It doesn't know a thing. And it waits, like crazy, to meet you walking down from the other end of the road. Lanky and grinning.

This sometimes happens in a horrible 10 o'clock traffic jam too. I roll down the glass and wish you were just there. There in the next cab. Or when I am picking up groceries from the supermarket, to meet you in the next aisle, doing the same. The will is so strong, so strong that sometimes I almost see you there. There, right in front of me.

Expecting coincidences, I move in and out of consciousness so fast, that I forget I am crossing a busy highway, I could just get hit by a car and die. But my numbness doesn't let me feel any difference between being alive and being dead. It doesn't.

It's very scary you know, that moment of not being able to realize the difference between life and death. And that's when I fall back and into an abyss. Exactly. 

Bitch

You know not all stories of your life. You're lied to more often than you know. What happens to you is governed mostly by strangers. Some of these strangers are absolute strangers. Their whims that precipitate consequences in your life can still be justified because, at least they were impersonal.

But there is another kind of stranger. The one you knew all the way. The one you thought you knew all the way. Only you didn't.

The stranger who stood a skin's breadth from your heart and cheated on you.

The stranger who didn't deserve to be a part of your life. Only he was. He wrote your destiny, cutting across the lines on your palm. Rewriting your life, turning it tipsy. Breaking your heart irreversibly.

And be ashamed, you let him. Given another chance, you will let him do it again. Bitch.

Undone.

One time, he talked about how he saw himself as a father in the future. When a man is up to such talk, you know he's up to something, he couldn't be serious. But you couldn't say he was lying or anything. You just couldn't. I looked away, embarrassed.

Another time, he told me he liked simple women. Like the Gayatri Joshi in Swades. Mentally I dug out all those buried salwar kameezes in my wardrobe. Even fancied long tresses that reach the waist, wondering if they would sync with the attire.

Sometimes, he told me, 'See you're a nice girl.'

Again, he told me of the places he was yet to take me to. I had them all pictured, neat and clean in my mind. I would close my eyes and see us, in the future. Happy and full of promise.

I saw our feet kiss silken sands, hair blow against sea winds. I saw us take long strolls by the waves. I heard us talk, the way we talked then. Like p&q, always looking into each other, and conversing. Lost, yet there.

So much for meaningless talk, so much for broken promises! Into long nights. So much for the hint of a dream of a life, I wished to see together with him.

Now, days whiz past, shortening life by the moment, chances of meeting him again heartbreakingly plummeting as I write. No body cares. He doesn't recognize me. And I cannot recognize him. A part of life stands, undone.

yasp x

Noone's cumin' to get you babe
There's no destiny. no fate
You are what you make of yourself
There ae no judging heavenly forces
That's celestial crap
Bad things can happen
To you, all the time
There's no savior babe
No soulmate
That's fairytale crap
So be by yourself
Never leave your side, 
And fall for nascent whiffs
They're not even real
Just an easy illusion
Real is what you are going to make
There's no destiny. no fate
Noone's cumin to get you babe.

Last Man Standing

Will you be my Last Man Standing? My last first love. Will you? Please. Because the day I fell for you, I had made to myself a quiet promise that you would be the one. The One for me. And after you, no man would lure me ever, an inch away from where I am. And I was right in your arms. Thinking of you all the time. Kissing castles in the air, making dreams with you. Honey! I had asked all those forces of destiny, if they exist, to give you to me. I wanted you, and wanted me to belong to you even more. I envy that surety, I doubt I could have it again in life. The dire intensity of the craving, makes me gasp for breath even now. I had never wanted anything like that. Hadn't the courage to. Don't know what was with you though. 


But now things have changed, and as they say 'There is no point in it'. Hanging on to illusions, supposing them to be truths, wanting them to be truths. There is no point in it. So in this pointless existence of mine, I have one thing to ask of you. 


Will you be my Last Man Standing? The last one I ever loved. Will you leave memories and pain so strong that I would never incline towards the candy-floss fantasies of love. Will you? Please! Let this be my parting gift. Last so long in my heart as is needed to make love an impossibility. Help me hold that quiet promise I made to myself when you happened. This would mean the most to me. 


Be my Last Man Standing. You will, wouldn't you!

My Heart

I owe my heart an apology. I have always taken away from it the people it has so badly wanted. And it hasn't stopped beating still. Kudos to its perseverance. But the heart doesn't even exist does it. It's just bloody pumping organ to the left of the chest. And I have no evidence that it is empowered to think/feel. The mind does all the thinking, evaluates options and tells us when to give up on things. Nevertheless, my sympathies for my heart. It has done one hell of a job. I would have called it quits long ago, had I been in my heart's shoes. But my heart doesn't wear shoes anyway.

I owe my heart a thousand apologies, having given it away to people who din't keep it well. For making it travel so much, back and forth, all those tumultuous days of mind boggling confusion. For all those ego clashes, silent battles that I fought and my heart had to be witness to. For swallowing all that violence, for bearing the unbearable and continuing to be with me, within me.

Sometimes I think, I should send my heart away for a few days for a therapy or something, it's broken so bad, like totally shattered, it should be given sometime alone to convalesce, to breathe. I feel genuinely sorry for it and  bow down before that degree of patience.

I have taken away from it every single thing it loved. I have trained it not to remember things and people I've wanted to forget. I have deprived it of its right to feel. I have drugged it with the survival drug every now and then. I have sent it off to concentration camps every once in a while, tortured it to unhealthy extents, never obeyed it. Rather I have fought and trampled to death its every wish, reasoned against it. I have cried and wailed. And my heart, it has only succumbed, succumbed to me. My rage has murdered its free will.

And tonite as I do it all over again, my conscience wants me to apologize. So, I am sorry. But there isn't much I can do about this.. the show has to go on.

Notes of an Endless night

The night doesn't end. It just goes on and on. Sleep eludes. Eyes open wider as the night gets deeper. The irony is, at no point is the darkness impenetrable, impenetrable darkness being the only thing I yearn for. All the time, there is some or the other source of light and I can see myself. And when I see myself, along with I see a void. The void is so obvious that it looms larger than my person. And I can't see anything but it. It is in a place where I used to keep you, untouched, unharmed, like a delicate dream. You were the summation of all that I wanted to become. But that was not to be. It all broke and broke very fast. I ended up empty handed, with a lot of pain caged within. And of course the void that created itself after you left. I had very few options. Just two, rather. I had to choose between love and life. And I am trying to choose life over love. I had to choose between you and me. And I am trying to choose myself over you.

Getting over you is the hardest thing, you wouldn't know. Every moment has become this constant fight to think of things other than you. Every passing hour, to engage my mind in something that takes it away from you, as away as it could. Days remind me how we were and how we could have been. Weeks, of how long ago I saw you last, heard you last.You wouldn't believe if I tell you the sort of things I do, just to not to think of you. But no matter where I go, I come back to where I was, to where I left you, to where you abandoned me. All this isn't taking me anywhere. Take my word for it, it's really feeling harder with time. Getting over you has been the hardest thing.

I am failing at loving you, I am failing at getting over you. Tell me, what should I do.

I run around, lunging for fresh air, I lock myself between four walls, trying to curse myself to sleep. It doesn't work, I try getting lost, try forgetting things, but no that doesn't work either. One moment I sit alone, I can't help crying. When I am with others, I just pretend normalcy. Yes, that's it!

This pretension has taken me a long way though. I have become a pathetic human being. I try to convince myself that I am this stone cold woman with no emotion, no warmth. Who doesn't miss anyone, who doesn't need anyone. I picturize a life in the future with just me in it. But it's not working. One moment of weakness, and I give out those soul shattering wails, begging you to come back, take me along. It's unbearable, you wouldn't understand.

..

Just Friends -2

Just Friends-1

We lived in our exquisite world, scarce of outsiders.Like we had been caged between parentheses. Him and I. He was my last refuge from love. No, I didn't love him. He was the man I ended up with, after hope left me, love failed me. Almost two years of time, felt like a lost layer of life, in afterthought. When he was with me, I engaged untiringly in the process of convincing myself that, it was not him, it was not anyone. After he made a quiet unexpected exit, without an explanation, I was shocked. During our last days I was coaxing myself to believe in the possibility of a life sans him. Later, I gave up. I missed him. Though he left, he probably never did. He became this vague outline of his previous person, my friend, and constantly loitered around my conscious.

We never believed in gifts though, me being the girl, sometimes he pitied my faint craving to be gifted something, anything. Once on the walk back to the hostel, he had plucked out a few wild lilies, tied them with my hair band, put in a few leaves and handed it over to me and started laughing like  he would collapse any moment. It was my birthday, nineteenth. I smiled too. But to make things even, I bought him an ash tray with skeletons and skulls on it, just to remind him that every time he smoked, he was indeed moving closer to becoming one of those skulls. I don't know if he uses it still. Or may be his girlfriend made him quit. I don't know. Has he moved on? I apparently have, now that I'm married.

We didn't call each other except for a first few times. I used to ask him about his art, the reason why he quit college, or so he told me, I never believed him though. I had always loved to watch him paint, how the random colors on his canvas took shapes, and how he never even distantly considered my suggestions for his work. And to avenge that, I never let him read my poems. He mustn't have had the slightest idea what I wrote about. Sometimes, many times, I wrote about him. Things might have been different, had he known. Or, I don't know.

J

A few ends are brought about by mutual consensus. They happen because we want them to. But they don't sink in as fast, my system gets these hiccups, it suffocates at times, this abruptness of the end, the aftermath, I don't think I have adapted as well as I should have. Okay, enough!

The question is simple, on my face. Am I jealous? Of every other woman you now share even the tiniest of things with? I might deny it when I am totally in my senses. But right now I am not. Right now, I am just insane with jealousy. I avoid letting these instances from entering the proximity of my conscious. But sometimes it's just so hard. Mostly, it is tempting, you know. I can't help being human. I want to know about you. I want to know how much better you are doing than moi. I wonder if there is a new woman. And via a lot of unfortunate discoveries, with negative affirmations of all kinds, I end of with this bitter jealousy I can't help but write 'bout.

The wound is raw. I have not the slightest idea when it will heal. Or whether it will heal at all. We are all trying to move on. Sometimes moving on is the happily ever after. I have tried remedies and failed. I have tried to fill the void you left me with, with other people. But the feeling is like-dead. I have done nothing short of compelling myself. But the wound is still raw.

And so I write to myself, every night. In the dead of the night, I am ..engaged in an effort, to fill the void with words, and realizing that it doesn't work that way!

May be

You won't remember the tiny details, neither would I, the pain that came along with what could have been love, after a few years from now. But the memories of the one day of being in love with thee, will stay with me forever. Yeah, one day. 


They say, a thing practiced for 21 days at a stretch becomes a habit. I don't remember when was the last we spoke. But I want to get over the way your voice created ripples in my heart and stole my sleep. 


However, the memories of the one day will stay, the feel of walking on clouds and not meaning to get down, will stay. It could have been love, or may be it was. May be it was..


Hmm..