Breathe

I love the smell of home.

The smell that assails my senses when I step into the room I grew up in
My memories traversing a different space and time, automatically
When this was life...

My fingers move, of their own accord.
Opening this, adjusting that, trying to place things just as I liked them a decade back.
And all the while, I breathe in a past.

It’s a whiff of childhood, and of adolescent pangs
Of the sense of liberation once exams were done and dusted
And the warm, lazy, endless summer days began

There is an aroma that could only mean mom
Her clothes, her cooking, her hugs
Mixed with the sharp, burnt, heady smoke from dad's late night cigarette

It’s the scent of first love, of late night phone calls
Of the feeling that anything, absolutely anything is possible
The scent of dreams yet to be realized, and thus, yet to be broken

It’s the sense of growing up, leaving the comfortable behind
Forcing yourself to spread your wings, even if you are scared of heights
The refusal to acknowledge the overwhelming homesickness

It’s not a sensory overload, oh no.
It’s more subtle, creeping in and catching me unaware during those flying visits home
And that’s how it departs too. Slowly, almost unnoticed, almost too soon.
Till suddenly, I feel the familiar ache of something missing
And I know it’s time to move on.

A random love letter

Dearest,

You have given me so many 'firsts' - I could put them all together and create a brand new life. A brand new me.

A me that I wish I could embrace all the time. And not in bits and parts. A life that I wish was the one I lived endlessly, and not in stolen moments.

You are the madness in my life. And the sanity. The storm and the anchor. The dream and the reality. You helped me find myself - by letting me get lost in you.

Deliciously, maddeningly lost.

You've woken a part of my soul. And changed my essence forever. And I'm back to where I started, longing for us to begin, all over again. So that we can discover, all over again. Resist, all over again. Surrender, sink and drown, over and over again.

I'm waiting for the firsts', to transform into forevers'.

Yours

This is how you lose her

"This is how you lose her.

You lose her when you forget to remember the little things that mean the world to her: the sincerity in a stranger’s voice during a trip to the grocery, the delight of finding something lost or forgotten like a sticker from when she was five, the selflessness of a child giving a part of his meal to another, the scent of new books in the store, the surprise short but honest notes she tucks in her journal and others you could only see if you look closely.

You must remember when she forgets.

You lose her when you don’t notice that she notices everything about you: your use of the proper punctuation that tells her continuation rather than finality, your silence when you’re about to ask a question but you think anything you’re about to say to her would be silly, your mindless humming when it is too quiet, your handwriting when you sign your name in blank sheets of paper, your muted laughter when you are trying to be polite, and more and more of what you are, which you don’t even know about yourself, because she pays attention.

She remembers when you forget.

You lose her for every second you make her feel less and less of the beauty that she is. When you make her feel that she is replaceable. She wants to feel cherished. When you make her feel that you are fleeting. She wants you to stay. When you make her feel inadequate. She wants to know that she is enough and she does not need to change for you, nor for anyone else because she is she and she is beautiful, kind and good.

You must learn her.

You must know the reason why she is silent. You must trace her weakest spots. You must write to her. You must remind her that you are there. You must know how long it takes for her to give up. You must be there to hold her when she is about to.
You must love her because many have tried and failed. And she wants to know that she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept.

And, this is how you keep her ."

- This Is How You Lose Her || Junot Diaz

Sublime

The conversations about everything, and nothing
Full of words, full of silences
Over coffee, wine or ice-cream
Over arguments or childish jokes

The dates, or are they non-dates?
Anticipation, and the comfort of familiarity
Time you spend waiting forever for
Time that's over before you know it

Fingers playing with fingers
The lightest of touches that make you hold your breath
The lightest of breaths that make you close your eyes
The moment before the kiss, and all the moments after

All sublime
All yours
Only yours...

Conversations

And then, I got goosebumps...

 

Neil Hilborn - OCD

 

 

A Crate of Beer, A Bottle of Wine

A couple of weeks back, I wrapped up work on a Friday evening and decided to head home. It had been, like every other week nowadays, an exhausting few days - and I was more than ready to curl up on the couch and watch mindless TV for a few hours. Along with a glass of chilled wine.

So I hopped over to the store next to office and picked up my favourite bottle. And then got a rude shock when I realized the number of people queued up to pay for their Friday evening party supplies.

Resigned, I got in line. And with nothing better to do, I did what I do best. Stare into space and start daydreaming.

And then this guy got into the line behind me - bumping into me, making me look around.

He was struggling with a huge crate of beer. Behind him, his gangly friend was struggling with another. "Wow", I thought, "Someone's having a party". And I turned back. And realized something.

The three other people in front of me were all dragging their drinks basket on the floor - one was overflowing with beer, one with every alcohol bottle known to man, one with two massive bottles of JD. Nobody had only one small bottle with them. Nobody.

Everybody, apparently, had plans that went beyond the TV and the couch. And suddenly, I felt...lonely.

Suddenly, I wanted a little more than my glass of wine. To have someone on the couch next to me. Someone I could sit silently next to, have conversations - or just be comfortably silent. Someone who's company was not an effort - but as fluid as breathing.

Don't get me wrong. It wasn't really a pity party. Contrary to appearances, I've never been a massive party animal. Given the choice, I would rather spend an evening at home with some close friends or a good book over anything else. But that day I realized, given the choice, I would give up even that evening with close friends or a good book to be with that special someone.

Given the choice, it would be nice - really, really nice - if at the end of the day I could keep aside that small bottle of wine. And pick up a six-pack of beer instead.