Frames to walk into

It is one of those evenings of unanticipated happychance. Those rare flashes of light in a thunderstorm. Of having stumbled upon a tiny sparkle of imagined light. Picture a rescue boat in lost whirlpools of torrid sea. I am rambling, am I not? Words don't come that easy. Sometimes thoughts would get interwined in the broad separations of my mind. And then I would often need someone to peel the layers off. One by one. Reason, question, argue and assimilate. Someone to anticipate the unfrequented possibilities. Those are rare occasions of discovering stillness in between a raging storm. It is not often easy to temper yourself to want to slow down. There are those who come to a screeching halt. And then there are those who chance upon a mirage once in a blue moon. What did he think he found, when he came upon her wandering about? Fated mischance or a curious anomaly of sorts? They say that sometimes you walk out of a frame only to walk into another. I often wonder, what if you cease to direct the direction that those walks would take. Maybe in rare cases, one could let the frames decide where not to draw the lines.

Elusive concept that is Love

Somedays I stare at a blank sheet, thinking about what I would like to put into words. There are so many things to talk about. So many stories that I have been a part of. Stories that I had started. Stories that I saw zipping past me. Now when I look at the vapours rising out if my coffee at an obsolete corner of the mountains, I wonder at the elusive concept of love. What is it exactly? Is it the anguish in an unfinished letter jotted stealthily, while waiting at a roadside cafe. Or is it the restlessness on a moonlit evening? Crammed in an overstuffed balcony. What if, it is like searching for a familiar face in a crowded hall. Is it that vague reminder of a forgotten song. The shuffle of stolen feet on a street littered with dried leaves. The whiff of air on a balmy beach. Is it knowing that there is another remembering your scent while flipping through the pages of a new edition. You know, there are forms of loving and leaving. And yet there is just one to stay. Stay put in a mind while the world labors in motions of entries and exits. Loving and leaving are like those solitary walks on an obscure sundowner. Saturated with questions but fulfilled in pauses.

Stuck in Grey

I had not been a believer in anything much. You could say my beliefs were that of an ordinary city bred individual. Until about that exceptionally bright day, when I turned around and sheepishly asked for a bottle of water. A quizzical expression and a disdainful snort. That was my first face off with what was to become imperative to me. To my experiences. My meanings. What would you call her? For me she has been a lot of things over the years. Her role has evolved, metamorphosed, been defined and re-defined. My friend. My confidante. The keeper of my darkest secrets. Basest instincts. You always need someone to make you see who you really are. She was that to me. For the longest time. It is true I have hated her on occasions with a passion I generally cannot evoke. And off course hated anyone who grew close to her, with a white hot rage. There are times when the lines fade between love and hate, and you're perpetually stuck in grey. I have been perpetually locked in grey. I realize that the years are ticking by. But I wonder if she is still there. Locked in my dystopian grey. Unable to move. Caught in the web.

Your window is gone

I was standing at the airport bookstore, in between layovers, trying to choose an interesting cover from the shelves, when I saw it lying there. The book she had said was worth reading a million times over. I didn't pick it up. No. The things she touched, sear through the membranes of my conscience. Like a brand that is only hers. She had come into my life like a raging hurricane. And disappeared like a meteor shower in the sky, with no traces left. I have nothing of hers with me. Yet I have everything of hers in floating whispers. The stories she read, and re-read to me. The chocolate she nibbled on when reading. All of it. And no, I do not touch them on neutral shelves in transit lounges. Lest they conjure her up at that very instant. Sometimes, I do not know whether I am more scared of my own reality or her window of perspectives. For once in my meticulously planned existence, something had felt real. So real that I wish I could frame pieces like postcards in neat little black frames. To be displayed, sprawled across my walls. Your window is gone you know, she used to say. I, like certain windows that stay irretrievably shuttered, jammed on rusted hinges. 

Droplets on my windshield

There were particles in the wind today. Droplets on my windshield. These long drives have curiously become a healing mechanism. And then there is him. I was thinking how lifeless, limbless loss feels. It's like that rotten tree leaf submerged under a puddle full of washed rain, the morning after. One who's shape and color is still vaguely discernible but it is gone nonetheless. As I turn on the wiper to clear my vision ahead, the flip flop with the clutter of fall tells me that in another chance, in another world probably he is doing that too. Or maybe he is, in this world itself. Particles in air that accumulate on my screen like the accumulation of silt on a riverbed. One can trace the path on their backs. Just like fate can be traced by feather light fingers on an open palm. Long drawn out summers, the humdrum of a faded life, distant echo of realities that would have been. Ought to have been. Like sitting cross legged and crystal ball gazing, under the voluminous clouds. Tell me your sorrows, and let me me give you light. I would. If only you could show me some light.