SO LONG

Lately, I have been on a frenzy of bereft and shaken, with my term at its end. There's this swerving amplitude I'm on, with endless wave points, stretching out to form a loose silhouette of all those seconds that won't ever come back. I can't help feeling afar and dreadful.
Beginnings are difficult, I believe. They always make you do things you wouldn't do otherwise. They make you feel the heat of the rostrum at a height enough to make one acrophobic. Everyone and everything looks odd and ugly. You hate it. But soon, you are gathering memories. And then, you realise that like everything else, this will end too. And because it will end soon, you hate it all over again.
Endings are more difficult, I have come to believe. When finally you have a good corner for those years in your 15-inch, your 5-inch, your cupboard, and your heart, you are dropped off at a new station wherein new trains, new passengers, new hopes, new mindtrips await you. You don't want to remind yourself of all those imprudent times, but you do remember it all, and vividly, as the clock ticks day and night. You have absolutely no control over this empty feeling which gives you nightmares of nothing-to-do days and nothing-to-crib-for nights.
You wish you could live it all afresh because you'd do it better this time. Only if that could happen. So there stands the chimera, waving back at you, and you're suddenly wrapped up in the umbrage of the ever-haunting runs to the next Maggi, the hold-ups for the next coffee, the last-minute-panic during the exams, the spilling-the-beans chats in the lecture-breaks, and the chortles and titters thrown in every minute of the day. Makes you go weak in the knees. Makes you gulp your heart. Makes you feel nothing's right, and will never be. Because you don't live in the same world anymore.
I worry the same, and they keep telling me that I'm naive, precarious, a worrywart. That, I don't see the good behind the fog of goodbyes. That, I don't look for opportunities coming. That, I don't wish to change. And, I don't deny. I do tend to lean on to people that I barely know, to things that I just happen to do. I latch myself to even ordinary moments because all of this has been a part. And leaving it behind would dig a hole within. It would fill with time, sure. But time needs time too. Till then, I wouldn't really look forward to moving on as much as I'd look forward to going back.

It's all black in here. And I'm still searching my way down the sneaky walk, with short, really short footsteps, looking for an incredible fix. To cradle it for so long that I'd just forget all about the gloom-and-solace is what I keep hovering over. The realization is plain and hard.
I have always hated the beginning. But today, I hate the end more.

MACHINES

There's this line between what I want and what I don't. I call it screw-you line. Every time I try figuring out, I'm screwed. So this line, it has a fixed chair inside those waiting walls. And though it never leaves, it doesn't come to me either. And I, I never really seem eager to kick it out of that chair. Because it has always, always got something along its huge plane, that gets to me whenever, wherever.
Then there's this another line between what I need and what I don't. I call it screw-you-part-2 line. Every time I skip figuring out, I'm screwed. This line is that weird shadow which breathes, light or no light. So you know, I'm never on my own. There's my head banging, my heart beating, and this line - brawling. I try avoiding it, yeah I've got some guts. But it's hard to beat your shadow. Harder, if it's a sucker shadow. Always telling me to do and don't, it never really comes to a point easy to choose from. The line, little by little, becomes my life. And life a burden.
Then there's this third line, between what I do and what I don't. I call it screwed-up-already line. Add a thing, whichever side, it's pretty much screwed. And it pretty much sums me. It's like that crane which goes up when told, goes down when told, goes nowhere otherwise. No? Then maybe that AC which cools when told, dries when told, fans when told, all stiff and up on the same wall for years. So I'm a machine? Rephrase. Humans are machines. Running on what they need and what they don't, for what they want and what they don't. Simple math. And I thought humans ran machines. I guess, we're busy running ourselves then. So much for being a human.

He was insane, for he clearly knew what he wanted. Yearned for it till his last breath, like there was no way out. He was insane, yes.

THE PROMISES

The book had not been parted with, in the last 50 years. She had left the book. He never lost it. He couldn't care less, all knew. His house had some say in it. He wondered though where his house was. He would flinch at every single ray peeping inside the room. The one room. The only room. He asked for a calendar. What day was it? And every single day would pass.

He never slept. His eyes would be wide open amidst all the blackening. Eating was no intention. They made him eat anyway. He kept quiet. For the day. For the night. For the life. He had no remembrance, they said. But again, what day was it? There was no calendar. And yet the day would pass.

He looked for the photograph. No pockets. He felt it under the only sock he wore. He barely walked. He didn't want to lose her picture tugged in. The book hadn't left. He longed for the day. For the meet. For the exchange of promises. He couldn't tell. Was it the day? Still no calendar.

He puked. Puked some more. He made it to the glucose. He re-read the book. He had lost the count. He hummed it. Traces of an old habit. Would she like it after all these years? He raced for oxygen. His wasn't the battle for nothing. He had to make it to the day. There was no calendar. He didn't look for it. The day was yet to pass.

He could feel the chilly air brushing against his pale skin, the blood oozing out, his grip tight over the book. He didn't listen to his lungs. His chest could do away with that burning. He was a kid running after his ice cream.

His ice cream lay there. She was white, just dusty. She was cold, just not ready to melt. He flipped open the book. The ring was never still in his bare hands.

It was a book, that bore more than just her name. The entirety of each line filled his very soul with her love, for all that she wrote, she wrote for him. It was a gesture he loved enough to hold on to. He hummed it. His old thing, her favourite. Her smile, his favourite.

The ring was never still in his bare hands. He gave it to her, on one trembling knee. He had promised.

"I want you to promise me to never lose that book."  "I promise." "I want you to promise me to sing me my favourite one in my sleep." "I promise." "And I want you to promise me another at least 50 years." "I promise." "With each time you bending on one knee with the same ring?" "Would you just promise me a 'yes' now?" "I promise."  "I promise."

It was a cold night. The picture fluttered under his left sock. There she was, watching him intently like she did, he thought. He took a glance. "Ain't you just beautiful?" And there he could sense, the same golden hues of her warm smile, her giggles echoing under the half moon. Was it his heart? It had started pacing.

He still knew not where his house was. He did not grimace. He had found his home. He had found his bed. His eye lids were slowly closing the gap. He didn't bother. All these years of unrest, he knew he could finally sleep.

He couldn't love her less. She had, after all, kept her promise too. They couldn't tell if he had died on their anniversary. After all, they didn't marry. They couldn't. All you could know back then was that the road had survived a crashed car, and a red bridal veil. All you could know today was that the asylum had a broken window, wasted tubes, and a wanted face.

His body was cleared the next day. Even though he couldn't make it next to her grave, the book had made it to his.

The promises were exchanged.

FEATHER

She had fallen in love with the feather that she had notched up while out in the sun. Suddenly she knew, what exactly called her out. Riding on the wind, floating over heights, cascading her touch to the extremities of the world. Losing a part of her at each instant, to make it easy to name those memories. Travel, but travel slow, to make peace with everything the life had to give her.

Only the air, no ground
A white serenity all around
Into this, her eyes would bore
She knew she wanted no more
A pinch of color would be good
But taint the snow, what could?
Sun on the front, wind on the rear
If anything could be even near
Almost there, she'd rise and roar
For she knew she wanted no more

A feather was enough, a feather would be all

A dream no big, the life no small

And to live it, to live it only

She be here, she be there

To be, and to free, where else she'd go?

Just everywhere.

Counting On You

It is easy to ask friends to count on you. And friends do count on each other unless they are not friends. That was simple. Anyway, what amazes me is that friends are supposed to do anything that you can't do at the very moment. Anything, like a superhuman. And when they fail, it becomes hard to believe that they couldn't make it out only because they acted a little human. You feel bad for the one you counted on. And even bad for the one you didn't think of. The 'what-ifs' never seem to leave your side. It only gets worse when the picture turns out to be far more acute than you figured, and your friend you counted on turns out to be far more heedless than ever. It is so easy to wipe it off when you can't make out something you were being counted on. It is so easy to shake off the regret of letting down your friend who counted on you. It is so easy to make-believe someone, especially if that 'someone' is your friend. But what will not be easy is counting on you again, dear friend.
Then there's another side to it, where we try to look past all the blemishes. We rely more on the good than the bad. And that's when we stamp it down if that friend is above the one-twos of laxity. And honestly, who has got the perfect shoulder to lean on? Or the perfect arms to be surrounded with? Or the perfect soul to die for? The only perfect thing to care for is the intention, which can deal with any darn imperfection in this world. The rest of the thing is just complimentary, ain't it? What do we gonna do then? We gonna brake those hover boards of all the 'what-ifs', and let the situation sink in. Deeper than the epic Titanic, yes. So that even the remains of it wouldn't make any sense. And we could just start all over again. Start counting on again. And come on, who cuts off a leg just because you fell down on the annual ballet eve?

Drained. Coffee? You better suit up, because I am sure as hell counting on you, dear friend.