In a world of text messages, WhatsApp, 280 characters, snap chats and emails, I feel like a long handwritten letter.
There are some people whose touch you would want embedded in your skin,
Tracing fingers on your body and feel the caluses of their thumb,
Of how their breath felt against your neck and made your skin tingle,
Then there are those, whose very thought makes you shudder
Forcing you to take respite under a cold shower and pumice them off your life
– Midnight Musings
For then I realised that addiction didn’t require a glass of whiskey nor a pack of cigarettes when it was easy getting drunk on the words we once spoke and delusional on the conversations we may never have.
– Midnight Thoughts
Was given these words by a friend, sometimes that is all we have..
Okay, to hell with it.
I was going to write something sensible. Pour out sufi thoughts over here in line with a heartbreaking mail that I wrote today morning. But honestly I’m tired.
Why is love tiring?
Why can’t we just automatically find our ‘soul mate’ or whoever it is that we are supposed to live with for eternity?
Why do the people you love turn out to be wrong for you?
Born in a different century, Married, Commitment phobics, In a different state of mind or perfect?
More than half the people I know are heartbroken, the other half are love sick. We all have our own issues with love, at times we don’t find our match, sometimes we do but we are scared in our own weird way and drive people away, sometimes our not so better halves run away, infatuations are mistaken for love and at times we just don’t want to.
I’ve been holed up every weekend at home with myself, sure I day dream about falling head over heels in love most of the time but I’m scared. Petrified of putting in that effort, going out on dates, finding people to date, talking on the phone and getting involved in general, new dreams with them making a regular appearance.
Hence, I have decided to not look/search/seek love, if it wants to find me, it would have to pull me out of the pile of blankets that I’m under and convince me to fall back in the trap.
And to those who have given up, its okay to not want to look at the world around in love tinted glasses, its okay to not want to believe in the book romance and its okay to leave matters to fate.
But to all of those who still have their hopes up, may you find the strength to love and not stop seeking for it, may you cage your heart behind steel enclosures and not get hurt. May you find what you are look for.
Because what you seek, is seeking you..
And then there were two girls, blossoming under the shade of Gulmohars. Their meet was a chance of fate, pole opposites yet hearts in the right place.
Under the watchful eyes of the orange blooms, they learnt, cried, laughed and fought. Weaving petals into the braids of each other’s hair, they shared secrets, and over cups of badly made chai, poured their hearts out.
On most days you could find them lying on a thatched cot on the terrace, legs hanging and heads dangling over edges of the cot. A sky of green leaves over their heads, punctured by blue clouds.
Love is a strange thing, it makes you understanding, and comforts in time of need, pushes people together but in their case drove a wedge between them.
Words that could never be stopped, stopped.
Eyes that spoke, bore a grudge.
Tears hung from jaws that once carried smiles.
Parting ways, they swore wouldn’t trace their footsteps back to each other. The city was divided into two, still not enough for the sea and salt to separate.
One winter, long after the blossoms died, one of the two found a crumpled wilted flower, one she was about to step onto. Safely tucking it in between pages of her diary, she reached out, unsure of how large the distance between them had stretched to.
Two texts. One nostalgic phone call.
They stood under the shade of the tree, all these years and nothing changed.
Half a foot taller.
Yet the same appetite.
Off season the flowers didn’t sprout, but a pair of orange ice gola stained tongues turned out to be a good substitute.