.a written note.

On some nights like this, to sleep won't be all that I would want. It will be something I wouldn't mind getting but there are many more and other things under the sun that I am still awaiting. I have come here, already decided, to communicate tonight. I write here. And you have to believe that I do not know the reason as to why I do that. Why I write. I've been travelling a lot lately and I've succeeded in not allowing the landscapes making me go hollow, deep in the belly of my thoughts. Some of those who read here, seldom ask me of the solitude they feel. I haven't yet decided on putting solitude in words to begin with. Not yet. Why haven't I written words of joy, they wonder. Perhaps it's just me who goes up there via this route. Solitude, as they call it. I'm thinking of writing stories about others, and by others, I mean, those whom you haven't met yet. I have met you in certain ways, though I'm unsure we both have met each other at t...

I have been wanting to write since last few days, and still not writing ached somewhere. Winter has made itself comfortable with its breeze that rests over the bodies that need to be sharpened, just like some of ours do. Who would have thought I'd someday have to remember things as if it was my uppermost need? Because I'd stopped writing for a while, I am continuously writing something, just to get back on the track. I need to activate. You believe I have a lot to write, don't you? But let me tell you, as much as the attachment that I share, I have as well been the cause of people's tears. Recalling that, it sends over chills, feeling colder and thicker than this season's presence. And despite it all, I fall in love with Winter every year. Someone asked me, "Is writing like a drug to you? Why do I see shades of sadness in all of it?" A drug? I smiled. I am trying to get closer to everything that I need to remember. This coldness of Winter resembles...

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."...

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.