.a written note.

It happens. How you have that one part inside you filled with, rather, overflowing things to tell, to reveal but when you really gather courage to walk there and open the shutters, they hide away, somewhere round the corners of your subconscious. I have been there where people wonder how did I manage getting over. Over incidents and people. Some of them chose to opine that I am stone-hearted, with overloaded strangeness. It aches to remember, somehow. I try day and night to remember everything, to connect the dots but in the end, I fail. What kind of failure is this, I wonder. I ask her, Prajakta, reasons as to why am I unable to behave like I'm supposed to. Had it been any other person, they'd have done everything that I am supposed to. It is bad to differ. One must always fit in. I hate how I could never learn playing safe.  One must cry if one's hurt. One must dance if one's overjoyed. But I do feel like dancing when I feel happy. But saudade , I tell you. I

I do not remember by whom but I've been told to learn from my own mistakes. I don't remember the speaker, but I've been comforted and told it's okay to make mistakes in the first place. Some flashbacks are meant to recur. But I am having trouble with recalling everything that I was once surrounded by. The most I can remember is the days I tried to speak to brother and that one evening when I actually did speak with him. Monsoon had just started. It would rain once or twice a week or sometimes every day. Somewhere during the time when it rained, I'd be quiet from the inside for I knew I wasn't getting drenched like I always do. Somewhere I'd know why rain failed to brighten me up like that star shining from within residing beside the moon. I would just get wet instead. That's all I remember. My convincing myself of the capability when brother was about to leave. "It's over", I started, "I just wanted to let you know that."