.a written note.

The Radio in the bedroom next to where I'm sitting at the moment just played your favourite song. I could hear it so clearly that I wished it wasn't so achingly good to ears. Should I feel good that I heard that song after ages (not listened to it) or bad that it reminded of you? It reminded of a thousand things that you perhaps were. It covered a distance and became enveloped in your voice, the way it might have sounded if you'd sung it. The song was a black and white coloured, at times fading, short-film of how you were, overly nice. And how the chorus might have been ruled by the melody of your smile. All the epiphanies can, tonight, make a way for me to go in a wonderland and become Alice for a while. But, old friend, I've grown up too quickly to let it happen just like that. Because there are these rough wooden trees at the very entrance, more than happy to tell me your whereabouts. You've changed the lane where you once lived and you don't ...

Within the first few days of the new year, the battle of whether or not to write, or simply leave, I am completely unknown of the winner. The battle I was too tired to continue fighting in, still, I fought with time and those who tested my dignity. I didn't mind getting tested as long as people who stood two feet away from me did it, I just didn't know those closest could do it too, in one way or the other. I will sit in the wilderness someday and think of and about it. I always loved playing with time; the way I felt about it whenever I thought about it, how I used to feel like I'd lock it in a jar, go to a favourite place of mine and open it with a smile so broad that it'd come out happily and I'd suddenly dance to melodies. I dream to make it happen one fine day. I could not abandon. Neither this place nor the eyes that read what words play around here. I thought I could play with time and I want to try that now. For some unfathomable reason, I can't...

Within last two weeks, I came here often, with thousands of thoughts in mind- wavy, talking each other out of complicating themselves and finally solving each other's mess, to help me write for there are few ways to communicate in. I hesitated to write despite visiting this place, because I brought along a decision whenever I came here. I cannot weave hundreds of words just to make it big, the decision that I have with me. I have chills getting over my hands as I write this. This is supposedly the last page that I'd be posting here. In other words, I'm putting an end to this place, shutting the doors. There is a reason behind this, of course there is. I don't ask you to understand it, surely you can't and it's okay. I wrote here the words that I never abandoned and trust me, I'm not abandoning anything even now. I just need to shut these doors for there's something else that's waiting for me to open it, to go for it. The love that I rece...

Latika's Theme echoes in my ears and as much as life gives us chances to sing melodies wholeheartedly, I feel like singing it on this afternoon. It is the first day of the year, 2013, and as stereotypical as it gets, we all are given minds that are, somehow, dancing on the tunes we listened to last year. Last year. I wish you all a very happy new year and I wish you love. I wish that you understand that it's like the first rainfall in the month of June. Happiness, on the other hand, is what I'm yet to understand. But I want you to go ahead and seek it. Cherish your dreams and love the people around you while you're on the way and be loved in return. I hope that you give yourself time when you feel lost and live in a reverie. It's very rare that people find happiness through this way. People like that are rare. And I wish to meet them. This year, apart from teaching me lessons, showed me how emptiness happens. And what it does to one. Emptiness, again, is...

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...