Letters to myself
The third stick of the day was almost about to be over. Staring at the various amusing shapes of the clouds, trying to shape something relatable out with the clouds of your own smoke as well which comes out as the mixture of your own remorse and emptiness is one kind of peace I can’t explain to the fullest. The cup of coffee which was now at its final sip and the mildly played ”Comfortably Numb” in the café speakers had added enough of stimulus to push me out of the fiction called reality, throwing me deep down to be lost somewhere amidst the smoke and the shapes it made after each of my puff. Some would look like my mom, some like a snake, some like fear and some like happiness…fading away in the sky, to reach the clouds most probably. And some; looked like myself and that smoke, mostly leaving me regret why I even started this in the first place.
“Bzzzzztt!!”The sudden vibration of my mobile shook me out of the fantasy. “Apollo is calling.” It was my roommate. And I’d skipped college today. Again. I knew what was coming. The dude will be a great mother one day I tell you. Two things he hates the most, being irregular in the class and second, may be me? Can’t remember. He had always been punctual enough to have the record of not leaving even a single day of lectures like it was his religion. And he’d detest and preach off to anyone who’d not believe in his gods. “One cup of scolding, served cold and dry, coming up!” I said to myself and picked up the call. And so ran down the most gruesome 5 minutes of my life where the devil himself rose back to earth to pour down all his wrath upon me., melting out the very flesh of my soul with regrets, One- of skipping the class, and other- of picking up the phone. “So anyways, when are you coming? Rita didi (our cleaner) is here already.” He calmed down finally, ”I’m getting late for the seminar. All my packing is complete and I’m not too sure which of your junks to keep and which of them to throw neither! ” We were soon shifting the room. Me being the type of guy who treasures even the smallest of chocolate wrappers given by someone as dear, totally could understand why he usually confused the trash over my treasures.
“I’ll be there in about half an hour” I said while paying the bill and walking out the café door. The clouds were still as dreamy. Almost too good to pull you back in for another cup of coffee….. but nope! Duty calls. The last window seat in the bus gave me time to dream a tad bit more. Being a writer is difficult yet entertaining isn’t it? Everything you see seems poetic and you search for a story in everyone and everything your eyes can catch along the way. That might have been the reason I don’t get bored too easily. Apollo was already ready for his seminar. Maybe he was already late, as he left almost as soon as I reached the gates of the flat, not even having my shoes kept in the shoe rack. “Didi is cleaning your room.” He yelled as he ran out the door “Go take a look at things you want to throw.” (Which would be nothing. Man! I really need to stop finding use in every trash I accumulate!) What else did I have to do? I started helping Rita didi as well.
As you start to pack things up, you are packing up each and every memories you have made over the time as well, not realizing how you enjoyed living them and having their existence now. Even the slightest of the scratches in the walls start holding memories now. That one scratch in the wall was made when my hand slipped off and threw off the cricket bat, almost breaking the china my Aunt had gifted me for my birthday. That poster was bought to impress that blonde next door who was a diehard fan of Avril. Oh! Look at that! My lucky Luffy’s keyring! I thought I’d lost it forever. Cant believe it had been behind that bookcase since eternity.” And so it went on for about another 15 to 20 minutes. The packing and cleaning, fighting with didi convincing her that the piece of paper she is about to throw is not a piece of trash but is an important memory of my school days when we’d exchange paper messages during classes to communicate. “What are these now? Torn out diary pages, few unclear, dusty photos and papers.” Didi called me “Can I throw these at least? It’s all covered in dust and seems like a long generational chain of spiders have lived here already! You’ll probably not need them at least.” She sighed.
I took a look at them. Few pictures of what seemed a couple; a happy one, few torn down pages of a diary and few more papers each having what seemed like letters. Suddenly my heart dropped, maybe a few beats failed to emerge for an instance and bare managed to hold and hide the tears in front of didi. It was my picture. It pricked to see myself that happy back then. Is it strange to get jealous of yourself? I wonder. Alongside the ever happy me, she was there as well. I cant explain if she was the best spring of the various seasons of my life or was she one of the coldest winters. I cant decide. As the poem goes,
“ She was my North , my south, my east and west,
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My moon my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong”
And I cant explain it any better. It had been so long. Seeing that face kinda broke a part of me for some reasons I cant comprehend and it also brought out a warm smile in my face at the same time. Some feelings I fail to explain. Her smile healed the sick. No wonder she was a nurse.
Phillyra. Memories as fragrant as the name. Fragrant enough to make my olfactories tingle with hallucination of a scent long lost. Or maybe it was just the dust in the pages I was holding. “Some scents are better off buried along with the perished musk I guess.” I said to myself as I raised my arm towards the trash can.
“August 31” , my eyes caught a sight of the date in the first sheet. “The rusty park swing grew a flower today!” said the topic. “Or maybe the scent is not meant to perish.” I dusted off the sheets. Call it my eighth grader syndrome or a code, I had a habit of writing my diary in the form of riddles or poems. And August 31st, the park and the park bench always brings me memories; far beyond the date forementioned and also regrets of growing up. I couldn’t help but start flowing into melancholia of everything related to the park.
“The swing, now all rusted squeaked by its own,
Two beating melodies played but not by the phone,
The tingles and soft wind gusts a beautiful flower,
Sharing ideas so common, sent the chills to the bone.”
Read the sheet further down along with a short encryptions of how the day went. Insignificant.
"She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars." Read the lines of ‘Stardust’ as the rusty swing I was sitting on creaked monotonously. That swing had always been my favourite since I was little. There would be friends to play with back then but now, just like me, the park itself was abandoned as well. At least it was silent enough for me to do what I loved the most. It would usually be just me, my books and the songs in my headphone. And that’s all I needed anyways. That empty park and the swing was also very lucky to me I guess. For that’s the place I met her. The day was just like any other. The sun didn’t shine any brighter, the clouds didn’t get too gloomier neither. The rain droplets were not dancing with the soil with splatters and neither was the air romantically cool and slow. It was just another regular day but it was special, just because it was fateful and it was the day I met her. No, there was no love at the first sight and neither there is any happily ever after. If you are expecting for any of such romantic clichés, I’m afraid this is not the story for you. As we grow up we start hating the fairy tales, fiction novels and shojo mangas because the reality is completely beyond the expectations we had been awating and treasuring to face because of the false hopes shown by them. This might have been one of such realities as well.
(Note to readers- To be continued in the same page. Thanks for reading 🤗🤗)
“Bzzzzztt!!”The sudden vibration of my mobile shook me out of the fantasy. “Apollo is calling.” It was my roommate. And I’d skipped college today. Again. I knew what was coming. The dude will be a great mother one day I tell you. Two things he hates the most, being irregular in the class and second, may be me? Can’t remember. He had always been punctual enough to have the record of not leaving even a single day of lectures like it was his religion. And he’d detest and preach off to anyone who’d not believe in his gods. “One cup of scolding, served cold and dry, coming up!” I said to myself and picked up the call. And so ran down the most gruesome 5 minutes of my life where the devil himself rose back to earth to pour down all his wrath upon me., melting out the very flesh of my soul with regrets, One- of skipping the class, and other- of picking up the phone. “So anyways, when are you coming? Rita didi (our cleaner) is here already.” He calmed down finally, ”I’m getting late for the seminar. All my packing is complete and I’m not too sure which of your junks to keep and which of them to throw neither! ” We were soon shifting the room. Me being the type of guy who treasures even the smallest of chocolate wrappers given by someone as dear, totally could understand why he usually confused the trash over my treasures.
“I’ll be there in about half an hour” I said while paying the bill and walking out the café door. The clouds were still as dreamy. Almost too good to pull you back in for another cup of coffee….. but nope! Duty calls. The last window seat in the bus gave me time to dream a tad bit more. Being a writer is difficult yet entertaining isn’t it? Everything you see seems poetic and you search for a story in everyone and everything your eyes can catch along the way. That might have been the reason I don’t get bored too easily. Apollo was already ready for his seminar. Maybe he was already late, as he left almost as soon as I reached the gates of the flat, not even having my shoes kept in the shoe rack. “Didi is cleaning your room.” He yelled as he ran out the door “Go take a look at things you want to throw.” (Which would be nothing. Man! I really need to stop finding use in every trash I accumulate!) What else did I have to do? I started helping Rita didi as well.
As you start to pack things up, you are packing up each and every memories you have made over the time as well, not realizing how you enjoyed living them and having their existence now. Even the slightest of the scratches in the walls start holding memories now. That one scratch in the wall was made when my hand slipped off and threw off the cricket bat, almost breaking the china my Aunt had gifted me for my birthday. That poster was bought to impress that blonde next door who was a diehard fan of Avril. Oh! Look at that! My lucky Luffy’s keyring! I thought I’d lost it forever. Cant believe it had been behind that bookcase since eternity.” And so it went on for about another 15 to 20 minutes. The packing and cleaning, fighting with didi convincing her that the piece of paper she is about to throw is not a piece of trash but is an important memory of my school days when we’d exchange paper messages during classes to communicate. “What are these now? Torn out diary pages, few unclear, dusty photos and papers.” Didi called me “Can I throw these at least? It’s all covered in dust and seems like a long generational chain of spiders have lived here already! You’ll probably not need them at least.” She sighed.
I took a look at them. Few pictures of what seemed a couple; a happy one, few torn down pages of a diary and few more papers each having what seemed like letters. Suddenly my heart dropped, maybe a few beats failed to emerge for an instance and bare managed to hold and hide the tears in front of didi. It was my picture. It pricked to see myself that happy back then. Is it strange to get jealous of yourself? I wonder. Alongside the ever happy me, she was there as well. I cant explain if she was the best spring of the various seasons of my life or was she one of the coldest winters. I cant decide. As the poem goes,
“ She was my North , my south, my east and west,
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My moon my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong”
And I cant explain it any better. It had been so long. Seeing that face kinda broke a part of me for some reasons I cant comprehend and it also brought out a warm smile in my face at the same time. Some feelings I fail to explain. Her smile healed the sick. No wonder she was a nurse.
Phillyra. Memories as fragrant as the name. Fragrant enough to make my olfactories tingle with hallucination of a scent long lost. Or maybe it was just the dust in the pages I was holding. “Some scents are better off buried along with the perished musk I guess.” I said to myself as I raised my arm towards the trash can.
“August 31” , my eyes caught a sight of the date in the first sheet. “The rusty park swing grew a flower today!” said the topic. “Or maybe the scent is not meant to perish.” I dusted off the sheets. Call it my eighth grader syndrome or a code, I had a habit of writing my diary in the form of riddles or poems. And August 31st, the park and the park bench always brings me memories; far beyond the date forementioned and also regrets of growing up. I couldn’t help but start flowing into melancholia of everything related to the park.
“The swing, now all rusted squeaked by its own,
Two beating melodies played but not by the phone,
The tingles and soft wind gusts a beautiful flower,
Sharing ideas so common, sent the chills to the bone.”
Read the sheet further down along with a short encryptions of how the day went. Insignificant.
"She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars." Read the lines of ‘Stardust’ as the rusty swing I was sitting on creaked monotonously. That swing had always been my favourite since I was little. There would be friends to play with back then but now, just like me, the park itself was abandoned as well. At least it was silent enough for me to do what I loved the most. It would usually be just me, my books and the songs in my headphone. And that’s all I needed anyways. That empty park and the swing was also very lucky to me I guess. For that’s the place I met her. The day was just like any other. The sun didn’t shine any brighter, the clouds didn’t get too gloomier neither. The rain droplets were not dancing with the soil with splatters and neither was the air romantically cool and slow. It was just another regular day but it was special, just because it was fateful and it was the day I met her. No, there was no love at the first sight and neither there is any happily ever after. If you are expecting for any of such romantic clichés, I’m afraid this is not the story for you. As we grow up we start hating the fairy tales, fiction novels and shojo mangas because the reality is completely beyond the expectations we had been awating and treasuring to face because of the false hopes shown by them. This might have been one of such realities as well.
(Note to readers- To be continued in the same page. Thanks for reading 🤗🤗)
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