Not lost, not yet.

I want to write to you.  But I know how this correspondence ends. Sentences laced with honey become tinged with arsenic. I liked my words better when they were soft like the moonlight. I liked your words better when they were comforting like the night. And now, all I have is the harsh sunlight that withers under your late afternoon storms. I want to write to you. But I no longer know how to soften the blows of grief that attach themselves to this exchange. So forgive me, if I do not write to you any longer. I cannot take much more pain.

Sometimes I wish that I'd read Caitlin Moran's letter to her daughter long before I had met you. She tells her daughter to never love somebody that has to be mended. Sometimes I wish I'd known and I'd listened. But you know precisely how foolish I can be when I want, and it would have done me little good. Because if love is a four letter word, then so is fool. And if I had only understood this sooner rather than later, I would have known that trying to mend you in the hopes that my love would be enough, was just setting myself up to be fool. Sometimes I wish I'd met you at a better time. Perhaps a few months later? Maybe we'd have grown up a little more. Maybe you'd have been a little less angry, and me a little less childish. Maybe we'd have made a better start and smoother spin around the track. Maybe you wouldn't burn up with jealousy at every little thing, and I wouldn't be so passive aggressive about it all. Sometimes I wish I'd stayed. ...

 Dearest darling, I spent the whole of last night wondering how you would have felt about this film I just watched. There were so many moments when I turned my head in reflex, expecting to you see your face scrunched up in a laugh. Maybe in awe. Definitely twisted with glee, once or twice. I'd like nothing more than to say that this was a one time thing. It's really not. I turn my head to catch you smirking when I'm all alone in the car and yell at the other drivers. I turn my head to tell you the food is tangy, even though I've set a table for one. I turn my head to ask you to pass the water bottle, conveniently forgetting that I sleep on your side of the bed now. I turn my head when I have really good sambhar, hoping that we've finally found the one that fixes your sinus. And then without fail, every morning, I turn my head to check if a minor miracle has settled you under the covers next to me.  It might sound odd to you, but I often turn my head and pretend that...

Post a certain point in time, having a blog seemed to have lost the relevance it once had in my life. Ideally, I'd love to blame this on the sudden growth of the mobile phone and the ability to broadcast myself whenever I wanted to. The truth is, somewhere along the way I lost the courage to pour myself on to an empty page and allow it to be judged by so many others. I may not have regained the lost courage or the ability to write long, winding blog posts. Not yet, at least. Still, I can write letters to myself, in the hopes that I'll find what I've been looking for. The only trouble, I feel, is that I have no inkling regarding the nature of what I seek. Such a dull thought to have these days, that I seek what I do not know. My hide and seek isn't quite as poetic, I fear. It isn't as if I have picked a path blindly and set upon it with all the foolishness one can expect a child to have. If only it were that, then perhaps like a foolish child, I would have bee...

It's a little early for me to have found myself wandering over to write a letter, but truthfully, what is time when the world has stopped? The light dies, and night creeps over the horizon and the sun shines and the birds sing and I fall asleep when the first rays of the sun begin to find their way around the stars. But I don't want to be sad or wistful and melancholic tonight. I want to be beautiful and passionate and tell stories of faraway places where the world exists but just barely. I want to be on top of a mountain, searching for the lights and waiting for the moon to show the dark side for just a moment. I want to walk into the forest and find a hidden path to where the wild things are. I want the skies to split apart and thrust us into a parallel dimension where fireflies live forever and all the beautiful moments we've ever lived through are bottled and sold on the streets to strangers. I want to be the Enchantress from a lost kingdom and create a world from ...

If one would have informed me that I would find myself back here on a particularly chilly Christmas, I would have discarded one as a lunatic. Unworthy of being heard or acknowledged. Perhaps this shall prove to be a lesson in time. It has been delightful to walk through the terribly maintained lanes of memory. I cannot say for sure what prompted the decision to look back, however it has turned out to be a fruitful one. It seems that the year demanded a return, the winter finally having finished. It saddens me to read my own words and realize how many were sacrificed for the sake of brevity and wit. I hope to rectify that soon. For now, this is my calling card - and my farewell for the day. And a promise to be back.