Goodbyes are hard. It takes away a part of us that we want to hold onto till the sun sets, and our hearts beat. Goodbyes leave a void inside of us, that we do every possible thing to fill up. But it still feels empty, and hollow. May be, this void is meant to stay till the sun sets, and our hearts beat.
I knew you would leave, but I held onto you. I knew I was slipping through your cracks, but you pulled me closer; you did smell like lavender and cigarettes, and love, I could not resist.
You felt like home. You did.
Not everytime when I looked into your hazel eyes, I thought you were broken. But as you used to light the cigarette, I could see your smile fading away from the corner of my eyes. I could find a hint of sadness in your eyes, and I knew I could never heal you, and you would leave. I tell you, it's all in the eyes.
It is already two in the morning, and I cannot help but wonder if you still think of me when you are too tired and you need someone to talk to. I wonder if you think of me when you get lost in the crowd, or cry yourself to sleep. Because I do.
I knew you were a train wreck, but I did not know you were too good at goodbyes.
We have become colourless in our own way ever since we drifted apart. I thought eventually I'd let you go, but your voice still plays in my head like a song; I cannot find the pause button.
I couldn't believe my eyes when the last time I saw you at a coffee shop. You were never a coffee person. "A pot of black coffee, without sugar!" Your eyes don't flicker anymore, while you talk about things you love. You are, still not a coffee person.
I walked towards you, in a spurt of longingness to hold you. The last time I held your hand, you were slipping through my fingers. Slowly and then all at once.
I did evade through the gaps between us, and I let you drift away from my cold embrace. I thought I'd eventually let go of you, but some things stay; Scars that are still raw, the last laugh and how the laughs turned into silences, drifting us apart. Slowly and then all at once.
"I look at the picture, hanging on the wall. I remember you left, and I am trying to find you everywhere, and in every person I meet. Your blood stained clothes still occupy a place inside my wardrobe; only place we exist together."
----------------------------------------------- Suicide isn't a solution.
I cannot write anymore. I think I am forgetting to write. May be, I've lost it all. Or it is just that, I am healed in a way that i couldn't have. I am starting to feel a river of joy flowing through my mind. Or may be, it is the beginning of some sorrows that will last longer than it should. I sit back, and think how I cannot write happy. I am reading a book named Kafka on the Shore; I love reading Murakami's works, no doubt. Suddenly I stop for a while, look at my dad who is busy working, I tell him I cannot write, and I do not know why. He looks back at me and raises his eyebrows. "Write what you feel. It is not necessary that whatever you write should make sense to you, or someone else."
It is hard for me to stay In the same place for long So I look for stories in people. it is easier than trying to find a home in them. you can start with a line, filling every space with more metaphors.
I ended up building These cities made out of words of all the strangers that I can't remember faces and names are easy to forget but stories stay
and I leave a slight melancholy behind. maybe you feel it too on the curls around the pages of your favorite book, you keep coming back to or around the edges of the words; a subtle sadness, even if it's a happy ending. it's the death of a writer who left this world, to build new ones.
but you always stay, in this made up realities to fell something. I hope you know what you're looking for. it is easy to get lost in the smile of a stranger (or a writer who doesn't want to stay)
maybe you feel like you are made out of all these words as if every word, every line, every space every corner and every full stop telling your story, telling every deep dark secrets you always wanted to shout out. as if we've known each other for a lifetime; so you find a home in a world I've built
but don't wait for me
I don't exist in places or in people. I dwell in stories and I die with them.
My father reluctantly sold his scooter, which he bought from his first salary. Now we go on car rides, filled with stories and struggles of him and the scrapped scooter. In his eyes, I could see he was still sad that it was gone, but somewhere happy that once it was with him.
That evening, he taught me that "It is okay to leave a person behind weighing you down and still cherish happy memories of them." ---- Once I went shopping with my mother. On our way, she gave money to a homeless man and later told me we have to walk all the way back home, as we were ten rupees short of cash. The idea of walking exasperated the angsty teenager inside me.
While walking back, we saw the same man buying food from streets and feeding his son. My mother just smiled at them and took me back home.
There was this look in her eyes that taught me, "Being kind towards humanity is what makes us human." --- I saw my younger sister struggling for hours to draw a digestive system for her school project. Next day, she was graded "B" with no words of appreciation. Still her smile graced no ounce of disappointment.
That smile told me, "All that matters are full-hearted efforts to achieve grade " A" in the struggle called life. " //Little Things//
Do you ever just glide your fingers through the clock's hands and crawl back through the memory lane to a time you couldn't read clocks?
When the stains painted over your tongues by your different flavoured lollies was the only rainbow you ever cared about, and rain was all about paper boats, and not paper souls. When you faked loud cries, and not pretty, silent smiles.
There used to be a time when love was directly proportional to the pieces of your chocolate you decided to share with someone, and not the pieces of your heart. A time when going to sleep was about bedtime stories, and not unforgettable ballads.
I am pointing to the age when darkness was fear, and not a dimly lit abode. The age when pinky promises were sworn over lives, and not over bygone lies. The age when songs were happy smiles, and not furtive tears.
Go back to the time you used to wake up till midnight and feel proud, and not ashamed of insomnia. The time you used to scribble birthday cards, and not suicide notes. The time when forever was the maximum amount of time you could play with your friends, and not an end of time.
You must still crawl back to that time and then it must push you to the present. You don't always turn your head back towards the past, sometimes it takes a look at one side of the curve, to turn the frown upside down, and learn to smile again.
And you must still think about the time when life was not just about colouring inside the picture, but about making it as colourful as you could.