Not lost, not yet.

Time travel is easy. Same room, same place, same song, you're back two years in time. Chasing Cars. What a schmaltzy song. Yes, this post is about you. If it happens to show up as an alert and you read this far, don't go on further. It'll do no good. I honestly took what you said to heart. Yes, I will get over you. Perhaps that is the one way I can tell you that I do respect you. For what's it worth, I never stopped loving you.  Granted, it won't be easy. Especially when I have the internet with me. I religiously avoid Twitter for most part, because I have yet to unfollow you. That'll come with time. The thing is that everything here, it reminds me of you. For the longest time, I wouldn't sleep at night before reading Thought Catalog once. Now it just repeats things that I need to stop remembering. I haven't touched it in a long time. I'm giving up xkcd too, because the temptation to ask you what a particular strip is talking about it immens...

Hello stranger. I love you as much now as I loved you then. First meet-cute, the lick on the nose and the feeling of having found a soul-mate when you slept with your feet tucked into my hand. And in the years that have followed, I have found that love has no seasons, no definition. You brought to me - to us - the inability to deny our existence and find in our hearts a reason to love. You were then and stay for me still, an angel of four legged furry proportions. Back here, I seek your footsteps in the gentle sway of the curtains and the opening of the doors. I wish that your soft head touches my finger as they dangle of the bed. Maybe even feel your wet nose obscuring my vision in the hopes of partaking a slice of salami or chicken from my sandwich. Even though you know it is all for you. All of me is for you, my sweetheart. Remember that, wherever you are. All of me, is for you.

It is only when you finally reclaim the slow, languorous night hours. That you realize how lonely they were to begin with.

Hi. I'm.. I'd tell you my name, but what good would that do? Names are common-place. Hundreds other could share my name and it so happens that we couldn't be more different from each other. Instead I'll tell you about what I am. You know how when you are a child, you think there live monsters and demons under your bed? I thought that too. But I never fought them. I wanted to know who they were and what made the world hate them so. I would often talk to them in my sleep, question them over and over again, but they never replied. One day I woke up and I knew there lived not a single demon under my bed. All of them were inside my heart and my head. I always wanted to work at a job where I could meet my customers. I wanted to look at the way they walked, the way their face would tilt when they tried to explain things to me. I noticed the young girl who bit on her lip a little more than she should and her brother who had the jagged, bitten nails. My eyes diverted themse...

I never did imagine one could read the way I do now. I picked up Love In The Time of Cholera for the 3rd time last month, in an attempt to finally read it. I've been rummaging through it for years now, making futile efforts to move beyond three or four pages. The fact is, at the time, I would have start building the streets that Dr. Urbino, Florentino and Fermina walked on all over again each time I started after keeping it down for a day. It becomes exhausting, imagining the crowded streets, nauseating odours and myriad of emotions throughout. This time around, all of it changed. I knew the city already. I could see it forming in my mind as I opened the pages to where I had last stopped. Somehow, I could fathom every cobbled path in the city as surely as the characters tread upon them. Florentino Ariza's love letters seem written by a hand no more experienced than mine. All it takes is one whiff of the air and every floating aroma, odour and smell from the harbour comes ru...

When asked a simple question, it should be settled with a simple reply. However, questions to the tune of, "What is it that you want?" deserve just a little more. The next time you ask of me, what is it that I want, I shall tell you. I want a friend. A friend who is available all day, without fail. I want to know someone exists who can be there to comfort me without the hassles of being cities away. What I want is come home each day, be greeted affectionately by my dog. I want to not get into the perpetual argument with mother regarding life, career and the insidious tone of my voice. I want to have a life, instead of being told by father that I have none and I should go get one.  I want someone reliable who will not cancel on me every other day and is punctual. I want to be able to meet this person every few days and sit with them in a quiet place, knowing that at that particular moment in time, I have their full and complete attention. And that I am loved. I want to have...

Perhaps it is the lack of fellow insomniacs who crack terrible puns at 3 in the morning or the constant honking of horns in the evening while going back home, but I seem to be coming apart. So do forgive the rants that will follow. It is a season of wrongs. It is all wrong. The wrong cities and the wrong time and the wrong thoughts. The weather is wrong. It is supposed to be unpredictably hot and then comfortingly mild within seconds and it just won't happen. I'm sitting on the wrong chair and on the wrong side of the laptop screen and this whole room feels wrong. The books are kept in the wrong order because why, just why should they be in height-wise order anyway? Who says it is wrong to stack them in the order of which they were loved? The light is wrong, it no longer falls gracefully and has to be forced in through a tubelight that has something wrong with it and so won't start until I clamber up a chair and twist it forcefully which is again, a terrible way to start ...