Sunday, February 14, 2016

Snow & Sadness

There was nothing in the forecast about snow on Sunday up until yesterday. But here it is, Sunday afternoon and I can't see a thing outside my window. Such thick fall of white insanity covering everything in sight. I should have known - what is Valentine's day without snow. I don't remember a Valentine's day without a little snow, and I don't remember a Valentine's day without a little sadness.

I remember one time when I was in college, it snowed so much that all classes were cancelled on the morning of February 14. That was a good start to Valentine's day for most of us. Then another year it was such a bad blizzard that those overpriced flower deliveries never made it to their recipients.  Then another time, I was an hour late for dinner because the traffic was horrendous with the sudden onset of snow.

I also remember all sadness of Valentine's day. And that sadness doesn't come with a lack of a partner or the wrong partner. Oh, none of that. It's because it's all so forced. The forced flowers, the forced dinner, the forced chocolates that I don't even like, the unavailability of dinner reservation and the pressure to get one. Perhaps the snow tries to cover the pretentiousness of it all but fails miserably every year. I hate things being forced on me. Love of all things. Love should never be forced. It wouldn't be loved then. Valentine's has become just so sad.

Friday, November 13, 2015

The Month Is Over.

It’s really not that I do not want to write. Or that I no longer have anything to say. It’s just that before I know it, it’s been a month since I have last written. It always surprises me how quickly time is passing, because I keep thinking that it’s been just a week or two that I last posted here. We keep thinking that once we settle down life will become calmer and slower, because you know, the words “settle down” kind of implies that. But it’s such a lie. It doesn’t get calmer, but it doesn’t necessarily get crazier either. It gets blurrier. Before you know it, you don’t really know where your days go. They just go somewhere.

I should keep track now. Of the sips of coffee I take in the mornings, and the cookies I bake in the evenings and the flowers I water in the afternoons and the trails I hike on Saturdays and the books I manage to finish in a month (which, sadly, is a very low number). I must keep track or I will have nothing that’ll flash before my eyes when it all ends. I must remember the letter I wrote sitting at dining table this afternoon, and the lemon scented candle I lit this evening, and the friend I spoke to after ages, and the squirrels that came to the patio, and the little sparrows that crowded the street this afternoon eating god knows what on the ground (they even stopped traffic).

If there is anything I am learning, it’s this: If we don’t make conscious efforts to make our lives matter to ourselves, it won’t. It won’t matter to us and it wont matter to anyone else. We must hold on to moments we have, grasp on to life’s little joys while we can. Because if we don’t, we wont even know when a month has passed by, and then another, and then another until there are no more months left.

Sigh. I hope you are with me dear readers. Because I do hope that I write, and I do hope that I come back before the month is over.

Thursday, October 01, 2015

Old Friend.

You know, even if I am in a corner, dying (unless I am already dead!) I would write for my dear October. My old friend is here again and as always it has been a lovely and much awaited reunion. Unlike last year, this year I am walking a lot in October. Embracing every bit of it and that excites me immensely. I greet it in the mornings with its soothing mist and damp grass. I meet it in the afternoons with its not so-hot-and-not-so-cold but just-right, breeze. I hear it from the window during the nights with its orchestra of the swaying branches mixed in with a special melody by the crickets.

Life has been mostly good... and quiet. Quiet is good. Quiet is always good. Don't ever not be grateful for the quiet, because chaos is always lurking beneath and it's only just looking for an opportunity.

So yes, life has been good. My daily struggles involve changing bandages on my feet (because no matter what shoe I wear, it just wouldn't become friends with my feet), and fighting with a spider. There is a spider that made her home outside my gate, by the mailbox, and she just wouldn't leave. Her web looks ugly, and makes it seem as if I don't care for my home.  So giving into my vanity, I have destroyed her home multiple times but she builds it right back up, sometimes within hours. Tough little gal. So there you have it, these days I have been losing to a tiny spider. Sigh.  I may have to call it a truce. I may just give it a name and see what happens. Like Charlotte… (or Aragog?). It looks like we are spending the winter together.

Sometimes we should. Sometimes we should stop fighting and let things run their course. Autumn teaches me that every year. Let go. You can't stop the leaves from changing the colors, dying and disappearing, you can either enjoy the destructive beauty or you can fight it. You'll fight it and you'll lose. Because things have to run their course. And sometimes when we give into the stubbornness, we lose sight of what we are fighting for or fighting with.  For instance,  no matter how I look at it, my vanity is not more important than that poor spider's life. But if I continue at it, soon it will become a matter of pride and I’ll lose sight of the fact that I am about to kill a living thing, for really no reason at all.

Monday, September 14, 2015

The Beach House.

~Short Story~

We had been coming here at Kay's beach house ever since we were in college. Every spring. Every year. All of us would be here. Significant others changed through the years but we remained. The five of us. After college, I would see all of them during the year except perhaps Sam. We saw less and less of each other with each passing year. And then just only at the beach house.  One year he showed up wearing a bow tie. Looked like a compete idiot. Not many men can pull off bow ties, some shouldn't even try. Another year he was supporting a full bushy beard. His brownish-blond beard. Very unruly and unkempt. I wanted to run my fingers through it. I stopped myself from doing that.

While so many things changed, some things remained constant. Every year on the third night, I'll come out of the beach house around 2 a.m. when everyone else is asleep. I;d walk up to the shore and find him sitting there among the rocks, smoking. We never talked about it, never planned to meet, but it always happened that way. He kept coming back to the beach in the middle of the night, so did I. Perhaps to just remind ourselves of the life we once inhaled among the rocks, when the roaring inside us, the thrashing life, could easily drown the roaring of the ocean. Now there was just silence, except the mockery of the waves.

I sat next to him. He looked at me like he always did, with longing for something you've once had and then lost. He touched my bare feet with his hands. I let him. His hands were warm. My feet were cold. I could see him through the dark. His eyes were always bright bringing me to life.  He touched my head. I closed my eyes. I didn't need to see him after that, I knew I wouldn't be able to feel him much longer.

For a moment, it felt exactly how it used to feel when we were in college - all reckless and thinking that life was full of possibilities. Now we were old. We had learned to live with the voids in our hearts. We weren't even sad anymore. Now we are mature enough, and scarred enough to know when to surrender our happiness.

Wednesday, August 05, 2015

Wall of Imagination.

Sometimes when I am lying in the bed or on the couch, I stretch as if I am trying to reach for something. But there is nothing there except the wall of my imagination. Have I reached it, I wonder. What if I can’t indulge myself in my fantasies anymore. What if this is it. This life. These early mornings and late nights. These chaotic afternoons and silent evenings.

Sometimes I find myself humming a tune, reliving a moment and feeling a tickle in my heart. Sometimes I wonder if I have just conjured it up and it can’t possibly be real. What I felt and feel and touched was nothing but a figment of my overly dramatic fascination with this life and this love. I waited for something and then something died. It was over but then it begun. It’s a funny game.

This makes no sense - what I wrote above. Just like life sometimes. But you have to witness it and write it as best as you can hoping that someday it will give you an end that you’ll weave into a tapestry you always imagined.



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