Notes from a Diary

Sometimes we sleep open-eyed, thinking of what is to come, or what may have been. Sometimes we listen to the words of a poet and fall in love with him unknowingly--not because of who he is, but what he thinks. Sometimes we fall like torn out pages from a book of an unforgiving author. And we lie on the ground, crumpled, abandoned, silent, yet unfinished. Sometimes, we build our worlds around the past and live in the moments that have gone by, loving lovers who are now ghosts. And when we have finally assembled our memories and tied them neatly in a bow, when we have mustered the courage to become citizens of the present--we realize that we've become too old to fall in love again.

Uninvited

After months you visit me again. You had disappeared, I thought. I had torn our memories and flung them in a corner, where they could no longer break me. Alas, you arise like a ghost...I see you walking in my arms across the street, as I wait at a signal in my car. I see you sprawled on my bed, when I reach home. I see you in the face of every stranger who walks by. I see you sitting at our favourite table in a café we frequented.

***

Love is a glamorous affair. How we love to prick our heart and drown in self-designed misery. How we foolishly relish every moment built by time, reliving certain situations over and over again. We become broken records. Un-repairable. Un-amendable. And we continue to play ourselves out, even though the tune may not be right anymore. We become an album of imperfect, cacophonous images, faded by time.

{heartaches, longing, love stories, memory, remembering, thoughts}