It is always nice to know that in the sea of people there is one person out there waiting for you. Anxiously looking out, even if it is just a shadow or outline. Traces of you in the crowd is good enough to give the heart a little kick of thrill and joy.  

Quick... become the arrival I have been waiting for. 

It will no longer hurt or excite you. Those intangible hopes and foolish fantasies on your part. Be brutal to say that you were thrilled by your selfish thoughts. 

Turning around you cringe at the past, you look at the path leading to ashes and then ahead of you the path into the light. 

Another trigger point are past words written and left in closets of technology. You enter it door after door and there the horrible bare faced- truth; hides there waiting to expose your stupidity. But that is not the end.

You are standing here. Bidding goodbye. 

Unable to grasp this scene. You turn a page and it had been nine years. No longer that girl on the floor nor walking the streets at midnight courting rejection. You find yourself catching this bus at peace with yourself and the way things are now. 

It is frightening to see that you no longer write the same. 

They call you another name. 

In just a week they broke down walls and made a new passage through. Your memories are altered from what they actually were; the night stroll seem more romantic, the grass felt softer, the sun looked warmer and the atmosphere seem light hearted. 

Was it all in your head? Because your body was waiting to return to this routine. It knows that it felt right here as everything has changed there. 

You are not the same. 

And it is not a bad thing. 

I finished another book today. 

I flipped back to be sure that I was done with it. 

And now I look forward to another book, a new story and a different ending. 

I walked on to a new adventure just like I always do. And I cannot wait to see what awaits on this new page. The fact that I will always be the author makes this whole chase enticing. 

Another door slams

Another tear drop

The same defeat and defense 

You didn't know it was too much

You didn't know it was enough 

You find yourself hiding under covers 

Writing

Again to yourself

To write it out

So that it won't be too much

And that it would be enough

Just for tonight 

No one knows 

All you needed to do was to take the next step. Put down that bag. Unexpecting anything. 

And there at your door step you felt the first wave of forgiveness and understanding. 

It will be ok. Somehow. 

Difficult it is to go through the day where everything and everyone is a challenge and battle. They demand to be heard and answered. The tears of yesterday still lingers on the lines of your face and the remains hides behind your lids temporarily, ever ready to fall. The word of thanks no longer leaves an imprint. And the weight on your shoulders have left you on the floor. 

The same blank notification is silent and neglecting. It resounds the fact that you are forgotten and one sided all along. 

Why do you feel insignificant, standing facing the wind alone.

Often damages made are by unthought words being said. 

Saying "sorry" merely sends the message to the mind. 

But the heart refuses to listen and clutches on the gapping knife pierced hole with feeble attempt to stop the bleeding and suffocating feeling of hurt. 

It is less rationale and much more fragile than the mind. 

To repair or soothe the heart means attempting to restore that level of trust again, strong enough to withstand another blow most often by you. 

"There is nothing so black as the inferno of the human mind." 

I had been thinking about permanent gifts or things that would last. Not forever but at least maybe longer than I would exist. 

The answer came and I stumbled answering myself. 

It is immaterial. 

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Ferris Bueller, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)

“Be loved, be admired, be necessary; be somebody.”

Naively, you always hoped for support and encouragement from your loved ones; even if it does not sound like it would work out or even if it does not make sense to them. It could be the choice of faculty, the type of job you are applying for, even the funky hair colour you picked, quitting your current stable job or picking up a new side hobby. You just wanted to feel that your courage meant something or it is real and that only you can make it happen. You felt invincible coming up with that decision which you definitely did not make lightly. 

So you hoped. 

And you got stabbed by hope. 

And you were left bleeding out without hope. 

Helpless really seeing her frail and just lying there, looking small and sunken in the giant bed. You don't remember how did she get so old so quick. For that moment when the bed gets pushed into the ward there is a silence that fills the space and you are just standing there taking it all in as everyone was making way. Mortality. 

We don't live forever. And this tiredness of the flesh is temporary. 

This is another kind of prison. A self induced one. You are in it with strangers. 

"If I created the constellations and the earth, the galaxy, the clouds, measured the earths foundation...count the clouds and send the lightning bolts on their way.. If I can do all this... What is your worries or troubles or issues that I cannot do for you."

An aggrieved soul makes the body run longer. It produces an anaesthetised effect.

There will be days like today. Where you would feel it all raw and intense. You become so disgustingly delicate, fragile and sensitive. Because your darkness or the fact that you shoved and gave everything the benefit of the doubt, that the doubt decided to cheat and manipulate you to feel the immense sense of loss; making you it's fool. And that becomes the haunting truth of today. It is crystal clear and you are unable to let it go; not today. It demands to be heard, to be felt. 

It grips you like a knife going through your body and you hold on to the person's hand who had just knifed you. One hand clutching the bleeding gap in your body, one hand on the murderer. Your blood pours out smudging the clean marble floors and it soaks the rest of your shirt. The colour red is too red and the warmness of it too warm. 

You look up.

You. 

What have you done. 

"In love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve."