.a written note.

I put my spectacles down. I close the door behind me. I return here and go back, open the door and shut the window. I close the door once again. I return to this place. I have a square shaped empty white space in front of my eyes and a keyboard beneath the fingers of my hands that have been struggling lately to be stable. What I have in front of me is empty. And I understand it's meant to be anything but empty. It deserves to be filled. Filled with words like wine in a glass. Molecules inside me keep on triggering tears but while in the process of playing hard to come out of my body, they become words. They struggle to get out. But it is this soul's fault that's afraid to open a door for them. It is this concern that the pathways on the other side of the door are made of cement and such rigid atoms and those that struggle won't last the way they are. They're made of thin laces and they bath in naivety. I have been fighting with urges. I have been fighting with ...

If not anything, I'd come here with jars of coffee and write. Yes, there have been days when I step my feet here with my mind more nurtured than before. Words like baskets filled with Blueberries accompany me but I have to be careful so they don't fall down on the floor. I had never thought I'd have people waiting for what I write. I received your letters. They smelled like bottle green coloured trees. I read the lines you sent me and they sounded as if I'd promised to get back soon. I haven't really spoken with all of you yet we communicate in a way. The silent conversations bright up my eyes and warm up the way I look at everything you send me. It's the season of Autumn and it's beautiful in its own way. It's been a month since I heard the sound as I type these words. I'll keep the unmade promise nonetheless. I've got stories to tell. People to introduce. Volumes to write. How're you all doing? I'm sending love. And I hop...

I am on my way home. No matter where I go, as I get nearer to our house, people I see in the way seem to be known, familiar even if they really aren't. I remember how outgoing of a person I'd been, but last two years seemed to have changed everything. Seemed to have changed me in the first place. If I have changed, everything else has too, bit by bit. I'll remember how these years like some pages from my diary. I've reached home. My home. Yes, I know how it feels like to call something as yours. Completely yours.

Tonight is one of those nights, one of those times when I meet a side of myself that I am habituated to keep hiding, sometimes even from myself. One of those nights when I simply know, when I have a feeling that it's going to be a sleepless night. Sleepless in a real sense. So much that an unknown energy comes in me and drags me out of bed, makes me write. It is as if I am getting wrapped by the curtains of solitude in a dark spacious hall. A hall only to let enter some wild winds through its large glass windows, wide open, but somehow I do not hear anything apart from the scary mysterious noise of the winds from the world outside. It is either that the town is already asleep or there is nothing worth listening to, at all. The thin layers of solitude, without the colour grey or black, surround me one after the other, making themselves feel thin and light but uncontrollable still. This is one of those times when I am able to think of this darkness around me as some rare shad...

I am moving forward and there are always going to be turns trying to confuse and stop me from where I want to reach. Behind everything to lose and to let go of, the Sun shines. It is the mind that wanders and wanders with a combination of colours making the day feel chaotic. I do not understand these colours for I never really met them. With a bell creating noise all over the verandas, we would play a game of Jolly. We would draw a mark on our palms before we reached school in order not to get a punch on our back. That was the rule. Marking our palms, punching and getting punched by the people we thought were the closest of friends, if left empty. A punch we called fun. A mark they called black. Perhaps the heart is in search of that punch. Over again. In search of the truth, these naked eyes. Knowing the reason why I am here, surrounded by the breeze treating my cheeks in its own way, I want to reach the place I see with or without my eyes open. And let it kill me later.

It's a Monsoon cold night and I have the main door and a window open as the clock meets midnight. Having wrapped in blankets and an old Red sweater, I have my pet sleeping next to bed, as calmly as ever. I don't mind spending the rest of these cold hours looking at him sleeping so peacefully. He knows I'll be there. I know he always is. I guess this is what I'd call contentment. I guess I am, now, contented. I see books in front, but I restrict myself from reading because I cannot allow myself of the involvement if I have something else in mind too. Nights here are getting colder, darkening the thoughts that lately live in mind. Early mornings are always pleasant but perhaps I have got nothing in my pocket yet. Just yet. Forgive me, I can't write more.

As I be with A, the sound of his laughter over the silly things I say and the way he speaks makes us think of things like we have kept a rear-view mirror in front of our eyes. As we sit on the floor, talking endlessly, I remember I'm doing this after what it feels like ages. The tiny little houses we see from here form an association with the things we talk about and I realize what I needed to. The usual food we make suddenly tastes better because we know we're together. This too will pass. The oldness will cover up the time that we choose to share today. But the words will echo, making too many spaces in my life that I have emptied feel grassy again. The walls inside me have absorbed the sounds and the scent of this time just so life may fade it but it'll never go away. Sometimes the walls seem to have imaginary hands that do not let me get back, and I'm pretty sure those walls aren't always called home. The desire to peek at the places I see from the same mir...

Sitting here, I wonder if it's about seeing in the mirror and liking what I see. 'Your eyes speak', they say. With every look of myself I get everytime I see, they, my eyes, seem to want to confront me. With all my honesty, I say, I run away from them. I try to. But the next time, everytime, it's a sensation of their coming toward me more hurriedly. They must be knowing the truth behind all the lies under the Sun I may have happened to tell myself in order to keep going. It's what I am used to do. To keep going, not knowing how far but far still. I am not used to the comfort there is in stopping for a moment or two. The comfort doesn't comfort me enough, although the view of it I get is inviting and tempting. I do not like the idea of walking the carpet that could take me somewhere I may be told I could dream. It doesn't completely satisfy me, being somewhere for a long time where there is everything I like. Going somewhere for a while where they may ...

Its like a glass half filled with satisfaction. Despite the feeling of loss I'm reminded by the smallest, sometimes nonexistent of things, of the path I no longer walk. The pebbles along the way must have stuck where I'd last seen 'em for they're still there, blurry, but visible despite my standing on the edge here, very much away. Time flies, they say. It should've had taken us, the slaves of it along as it flew. But we are, somehow, still where we'd been. Still there enough to pretend the time is our companion and that we'd never do it injustice. Of cheating it and ourselves. This is now a new path I walk. Getting used to it will soon make it old. I'll again step out of the way. And I'll continue looking back at the pebbles I believe I own at this moment. I look in the mirror more often lately. And I like what I see. I'm growing up. The clothes I wear have a different scent than before. In fact, they do  have a scent over them. I open the ...

I wake up as I feel vibrations and the alarm I'd set last night. I am alone here. It awakens and freshens me up within first two seconds. Its 2AM and its only been three hours of sleep but when I step on the floor, I don't feel I'm compromising anything. I drink a glass of chilled water and I know I want to make this last until the Sun rises. I get my things together and sit down on the floor. Without any mattress. I look at these four walls and I am now reminded of the same mood I used to be in over here a couple of years ago. Of books. And knowledge. The walls that seem nothing more than just walls now, would feel like my companions back then. With this pleasingly idle, breezy midnight and one of the best sounds of winds and leaves of the Palm tree together, I have the whole house to myself. As the sweat starts fading away, I again know I want to make this last until the morning. And I know it is going to be like this every night from now on. Its time. I've known. ...