Willing

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 want to remember that phase. The wind, voices and everything that I once possessed. The feeling is such that I suddenly got transferred to some place. Here, I am visible to everyone but I cannot see anybody. I emptied myself in all senses but I wonder if I should regret why did I not think of the consequences thereafter. How can a person suddenly feel like an illusion? Where does it all go?

I do not hurt at night like I used to and I think that's one good thing that happened until recently. A little less intensity doesn't hurt after all. And I hope you understand. Hope that you understand by that one part, I meant heart. It was a spark that overflows, and I know they couldn't understand. For they couldn't bear.