There are few things that scare me a lot. The night before the results of a big exam. Maths. Earning the wrath of certain people. If I have to call these people or mail them, I think of all sorts of things. I wonder if they are busy. I wonder if they might see my name flashing on their phones and get angry. I wonder how they might react to my call. I factor all this in and then go ahead and call them. Sometimes, I just quietly turn off my phone and put it away; and congratulate myself mentally on having averted a potentially ugly situation.
The people I know sometimes become the people I used to know. I forget what my name sounds like when they say it. I forget the sound of their laughter. I forget how they pronounce certain words. Then many years later when I hear someone else say a particular word in a fashion that they did; I think of them and wonder where they might be.
There are nights when you sit and run over everything you’ve done. All the things you missed out. The times you turned down offers to go to a beach for a weekend getaway. I am everything I do. And everyone I meet. If that actually does work the way I think it does, does that mean, the things I didn’t do at least slightly alter who I am. If I had gone to beach last week and I had consumed alcohol from a coconut shell, would that have in some minuscule capacity made a difference to who I am.
I miss my phone ringing in the night. I miss taking long cab rides as the sun sets. I miss myself in colourful socks and in worn out jeans. I miss everything that I had and I might have. I miss my sister being in the same room as me, on long boring Sundays.
It is a Saturday evening and everyone at work has left. I am writing this and drinking coffee from a paper cup. I wonder if there ever comes a time in any of our lives when we are perfectly happy with everything. If it does, does it last a while? If it doesn’t, is it because we expect too much? And if we did drop our expectations, is there really a point in such a compromised happiness.
I wish I could just fix everything there was to fix, or atleast make peace with the fact that sometimes you can’t fix things.
"I know someday you’ll be a star in somebody else’s sky
But why, why can’t it be mine."
The people I know sometimes become the people I used to know. I forget what my name sounds like when they say it. I forget the sound of their laughter. I forget how they pronounce certain words. Then many years later when I hear someone else say a particular word in a fashion that they did; I think of them and wonder where they might be.
There are nights when you sit and run over everything you’ve done. All the things you missed out. The times you turned down offers to go to a beach for a weekend getaway. I am everything I do. And everyone I meet. If that actually does work the way I think it does, does that mean, the things I didn’t do at least slightly alter who I am. If I had gone to beach last week and I had consumed alcohol from a coconut shell, would that have in some minuscule capacity made a difference to who I am.
I miss my phone ringing in the night. I miss taking long cab rides as the sun sets. I miss myself in colourful socks and in worn out jeans. I miss everything that I had and I might have. I miss my sister being in the same room as me, on long boring Sundays.
It is a Saturday evening and everyone at work has left. I am writing this and drinking coffee from a paper cup. I wonder if there ever comes a time in any of our lives when we are perfectly happy with everything. If it does, does it last a while? If it doesn’t, is it because we expect too much? And if we did drop our expectations, is there really a point in such a compromised happiness.
I wish I could just fix everything there was to fix, or atleast make peace with the fact that sometimes you can’t fix things.
"I know someday you’ll be a star in somebody else’s sky
But why, why can’t it be mine."
Subtle and yet so deep. I miss you!
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