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.

Forgotten

An image of a forgotten reflection which earlier sparkled through my kohl-lined dark eyes. The girl who would swing her arms merrily; who wouldn't think twice before wolfing down road-side bhel puris or even gol-gappas for that matter. Who would sit in any cafe and just smile to herself at the very thought of a latte or a cappuccino; who would dream of plays and consider them to be better than life, or the one who loved to sing, even though she knew she wasn't good at it, but still hit the wrong notes because she didn't give a damn. 

The girl who walked the roads nonchalantly in her chappals with her emerald green jhola placed daringly on her shoulder; who smirked sheepishly every time the wind whispered in her hair--Me, a girl who just didn't give a damn...is now lost.