.a written note.

Sleep consisting of endless possibilities of illustrations and strokes of brushes of bruised thoughts and wishes. And then an alarm A wake-up call, hey it’s a new day. Waking up to an already awake world still rejoicing in the sunrise with toothpaste, a different brand from home’s. Time - travelling at the back of mind. Time - travelling, always. A reminder. Present Tense. Use grammar of life. When you are in present, live in the present. Mirror. Acknowledgement. Officially, the day starts.

As I see my fingers resting on the keyboard here, I can’t help but feel a sense of belonging. At the same time, I now wonder how many places and people and things are there that make you feel this sense of belonging. Do we always seek this? Are we scared to not belong anywhere? No, I don’t think so. The fact is we really do not belong anywhere. We are mastered by none. We belong nowhere but to ourselves alone. Therefore, when we feel the same emotion that something; anything, anyone, any place; shares our shade of colour, we begin to feel sheltered, comforted and safe and sound, whatever that is. We are mechanized to like shades of our own colour. If I am Black, I am more likely to settle with Grey than Blue, a very attractive colour but hailing from a different tribe of shades. If by chance I do jell up, depending upon each of our influence over one another, we might overrule and we might find joy in overruling each other, we might loathe each other for our differences. The coin can t...

I miss her. There are times when I am reminded of her brown eyes and the way they sparkled through her eyelids. I cannot, not in my senses, give it a recap, her memories that she left, because it scares me somehow. What is the point behind this mystery when you suddenly leave from people’s lives? Why, I mean. Her name, it lingers over the top of every happy occasion as well as a normal gathering in her absence. The traces that she has left behind, without intending to, are the ones that haunt me and they do it really well. I don’t know why I’m writing about it here, where I’m letting strangers read this. But it takes me back to the fact that I know no reason, no conscience and no logic whatsoever when it comes to grief. Grief of hers. I fear it and knowing that I fear restricts me from going in that direction. No matter who disappears and leaves the room, I am haunted by her leaving. The way she walked out. Left. Let go of me. I know grief is best justified when expressed...

The last few days, funnily enough, I think to myself how insecure I used to get when it came to letting people in real life read my musings. That being the primary reason, I hesitated not to keep my previous blogs a secret. There haven’t been a lot of secrets actually or any private confessions to be kept from anyone who I knew in real; but they were just catastrophes most alive in my state of mind. It happened so mostly because all my life, I’ve been a listener. I don’t know whether to take pride or be just a little bit ashamed for it. A listener always listens, and listens very carefully, connecting the anecdotes with reasoning and with genuine concern towards the speaker. But I don’t want to suffocate myself any more. I’m trying from my end to be as myself as possible because let me insert a cliche, Life is Short. It really is and lately I see no point in hiding behind anything for the fear of being seen. Words made me before, they’ll build me up again and I can’t serv...

Of all the stories they told me I picked the ones  elaborated with enthusiasm listening to them in family gatherings, kitchen and the backyards I monitored life with the only guideline that every passer by was an angel, not knowing that there is only place in this world for the adroit and sceptical and I stood there letting life reach  my adrenaline for that’s what a novice does.

Dear Snehmoy, As you know, I spent days and years even trying to learn Bengali or Hindi for that matter, but tonight I am writing to you with the meaning of your name surrounding my brain. The meaning which you had taught me a long time ago. I remember the letter in which you spoke about the kites I had sent for you as a goodwill and how you used them all with one of the new members in the family. As you went on describing the festival and its celebration in India, I couldn’t help but imagine you flying kites and enjoying the festive vibes. Oh, how I wished to be present over there! The Polaroids of yours and your Aunt you had sent me rest on my kitchen wall that shines bright when I slide off the curtains. It amazed me how someone so far away could still brighten up my day so easily, after all these years. Yokohama has treated me well till now and my nephews kept me entertained although they secretly asked my brother why, on some nights, I bled. Yes, there are some days...

When you put your arms around me, I be dazzled by the wounds you’ve held for so long Why did you stick by the rose seemingly so red and bold if all it gave you were thorns? I am intrigued with a terror like that that swings you off your feet covers your face with the purest of the pure joy and moulds you into someone who passes the love on I am terrified of your power & grace it takes you somewhere far but the ashes of hope and longing scream they scream of your inner hospitality enchanting and bokeh like, oh, life and its vulgarity..

How am I supposed to feel when this river flows furiously & reminds me of utter peace? How am I supposed to write for there are words still unsaid, still echoing.

A boy called out while I was on a beach sinking in thoughts, drowning in anxiety. He asked my name & where I came from & if he could join in I must have managed to look less bad, for the next moment the space beside me didn’t remain empty. The boy sat next silent & more of it, without my attention for it was a beach as wide as it seemed making me sink in thoughts & all of their secrecy. He spoke of his hometown & how he missed it The cities he had roamed around, & their beloved streets. He smiled often for reason as unknown as the world to me, warning me how hopeless we were & difficult at living. He left me within minutes the boy with bruised arms & torn jeans leaving behind a note, that read “It’s okay to feel nothing.”

Is it about the little things that, according to them, matter? Is it about the daily little struggles you go through with people and relationships you share with them, the struggles of self-esteem or for self in the first place? This is so very chaotic. No, this isn’t a diary, this isn’t a blog. Tonight, I am just writing. Let’s not put a label onto it. I see and feel continuously, daily, that time is running out. This anxiety kills. What do we keep our secrets for? Why are we so scared? How on Earth is it possible to fear things that altogether create one’s world? I’m not confused. I’m just wondering. I could use some writing, but I’ve been terrible at it lately, leave alone gathering appropriate words.