Archive for the Category »Thoughts «
He wanted to paint the colors of the sunset in the dancing rivers. With his father beside him, he felt like a superhero though he could not walk much with a virus in his legs. And his hands made up for that, for the fingers danced in the canvas when he was happy, stroked higher when he wanted to run or just laid still when he was tired.
He and Tom, his father, used to sit by the lake every evening or most of his days, otherwise marked by the stillness in his legs. He never had felt the earth on his toes, they said he was one of the lucky few who had to rest well for they have to make long journeys.
They used to sit by the dock down the lake. They counted the stars as they slowly emerged from the blankets of grey, orange, and purples. He wanted to capture each of that hue on his canvas, and take that moment with him forever. He would not have minded if the universe could have ended just then, for there is no where else he wanted to be and that was not a moment when he felt like a cripple. He would trail his numbed toes through the waters and watch the reflection of a dreamy sky in its ripples. He felt alive in his legs then and accepted and celebrated them in all its glory.
Tom used to get some tea and sometimes played his tune on the strings, making the evening more beautiful than ever. He used to think his father as a genius with nothing impossible for him. In his jacket, that Tom wore everyday for this occasion, he looked peaceful and content. The jacket belonged to his mother, Tom’s wife, who gave it to him before she slipped from this world. And with the jacket snugged on to Tom’s shoulders, it reminded him of the way she used to stand beside him with her soft tiny hands, as a blanket of comfort that he missed now so dearly.
Tom loved her much, guess, too much.. and no matter what he did to fix it, his eyes could never hid it and no matter how many times Tom and his son spent in the evening together, or how many sunsets came and went, his soul had left with hers and only a tiny piece remained, that piece belonged to his son and always would. Tom’s heart was in nothing that he did, except those evenings when he used to play his music by the ripples in the lake. That’s why he longed for them so, just to know Tom was at peace in this world, if only for a time. Tom had tried, he knew, to sort through the thoughts he had, but there was something changed in his mind, something had just died in him.
Tom’s gone now, and left him and everything and everyone behind, to be with his mother – the only place he truly belonged . He misses him, his songs, his jacket.The lake seems so lonely now, but every evening he still pulls through in his wheel chair down to dock, slips his socks off and soaks his toes in the lake. He trails his feet through the water lightly and pretends that he can see the reflection of Tom’ smiling face amidst that of the sunset’s.
He smiles as the wind blows gently across his cheek and he knows, by the way it picks the fallen leaves up and tosses them into the sky, that Tom is truly happy now.
They rested, celebrated, found each other all over again in a cheap motel room that seemed as surprised in the hues of pink and magenta of their shadows.
She leaned closer to the side of the bed, lazy with the darkness looming in the curtains of the room. He was spinning verbal menageries like the spider on the corner with its cobwebs of reason and imaginations. The words swirled with their cigarette smoke, dissolving in the rings of air, humidity and underlying innuendos, dancing across the hazy air like a perched dancer on an invisible boulevard.
He had been away all weekend and most of the time that spanned through it; she felt like she would burst in her own bubble of solitude and loneliness of chaos in her head. And now she sat here watching his theatrical montage of words and smoke mixing together.
He speaks in turquoise, cerulean, yellows… whiskey amber, and delectable embellishment, each breath laced with nicotine and lucid dreams. Every day is a void canvas and a new paint-brush of dynamite; somehow the paint always drips, and he lights the fire in her head, each day every day.
For him, it was not a matter of a ploy, or for his own catharsis. He was his own character, poised, comic, tragic and poignant, all at the same time… he is words with wonder coated in a fabulous thin candy shell.
And he has this lousy habit of making people fall in love with him.
He didn’t know about the weekend she’d had. He did not know that she had just lost her Enzo, her dog , her companion and the car was a reckless thing on that lousy Sunday Morning. Enzo was a hyperactive silly dog running across the streets, chasing squirrels dropping from the fall trees .All it took was a screech to bring her perfect world to an end.
He didn’t know how she thought she might be going crazy. How she had read that dogs are the best friends and people mourn their dog’s death more than the death of their peers or folks. How she had not eaten well ever since and was clinging on to her shards of reasoning, failed and discarded.
There was a quiet moment. Not an awkward silence – with him, these did not exist. The fan was louder than it seemed with chaos in her head. He stared quietly into the distance like he was tapping onto his thoughts from a distance, like he was thinking about something way smarter than anything she could ever understand. It was nice, this silence. And then he turned to her, out of nowhere, and said
“Look at you. You’re writhing in the crushing grip of reason.”
And he was right.
She hadn’t told him a damn thing, and he was right. He had a way of saying it that made it sound bigger than everything else in the room. He had an understanding that dissolved in the smoke of his cigarette, like he was not one of those making a mockery of their own words, like he understood that Enzo was gone and she never would play with him again. Like he was joking but he was not.
“So how do you suppose that it was so?”
She continued chasing the smoke clouds in her head and squirmed. There was no need to say anything further. He knew already.
He knew how scared she was.
What good is a conversation when the words have already been spoken in your minds?
It’s a huge waste of space. That’s what it is.
“She will remember your heart when men
are fairy tales in books written by rabbits.
Of all unicorns, she is the only one who knows what
regret is – and love.”
-Schmendrick
Her lips open part for the breaths, dissolving into the sweats and blood,
Her words are not powerful-her speech faltering and embarrassed
But she is sincere!
First- she has to tell you
That there is a reason, a justification and understanding
That you always sought for but missed in her
Second- a caution- a request
Dontsayanythingyet, youmightmisunderstand
She doesn’t want an answer,
Leave beside a wrongone and misunderstood!
She conjured a whispered affection, fondness in her shadows-
Spoken with dry lips, parched and devoid.
Her averted eyes and apparent hopes
Gleamed in her eyes that don’t shine!
In her mind you’re a destiny,
just not the one she took home but hoped sincerely!
She would never say it in words,
she cares at least too much to pass it by.
But she’s been telling you for a while
with the way she leans in the doorway
always in the midst of lights and her gloom
where her shadows meet yours, becoming one.
And her grandmother told her stories about the Stars. Stars that she loved every night, stars that shone just for her. Stars that did not disillusion, and disgrace love.
Oh, she hoped they existed for her sake!
She stood still in her garden, bending forward as if admiring a dead flower- or almost dying. The moonlight caught the hem of her dress, sparkling at the corners, giving it its own whites of melancholy. Her hair, golden as a hay, was pulled up into a knot high on her head leaving a neck as graceful as a swan’s, as vulnerable to the hunter’s arch.
And the west wind blew.
He approached her from the west with the wind and his scent and his steps were carried with the autumn leaves. He moved soundlessly except for the winds that were carrying him forward before his steps. He brought along a faint jingle of silver-white necklaces, as a token from a parting lover. She stood along, did not seem to move but left a deep sigh, as if an acknowledgment towards him, and his weight carried in the winds. Her back was turned to him and the west winds.
His cloak was of a warrior, shining and crisp. It was as if he was leaving for a far away battle, as if this was just a temporary home for him. His hands were brown and smooth and longed for her last touch. He smiled vaguely in the moonlight, but the moonlight shone on his agony more than the pretence of his smile. Had her back not been turned to him, she would have seen the moon shine on his smile, she would have seen the light in his dark aura and she once more had been dazzled and heart-broken. She was prepared and did not turn to look, she only said, “You are leaving,” it was not an indictment.
His smile faltered, but only for a moment. They always knew that the Warrior left them alone; never before had there been one who did not beg, who did not ask in vain for him to stay. Smiling wider, he stared down at his brown, smooth hands and said, “I am leaving.”
At this, she nodded, her silver-white gown shimmered faintly in the moonlight. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, as if in approval. There was silence except for the faint jingle of necklaces and the sound of the west wind doing her part of begging and beseeching.
And the Time stood still, as if capturing the last moments of love frozen in the garden of autumn winds.
He broke the silence, awkwardly, as if he were unaccustomed to speaking, “Since you have not begged me to stay, I shall grant you a wish”. He was surprised at the tone of his own voice, tender and shaking. He added quickly, “but do not ask me to stay. I may return some day, but I will not stay.”
She smiled a strange, secretive smile, the kind that always accompanied a tear drop. But did not turn to look at him. Her voice sounded as if it came from very far and she spoke very slowly, “I ask that you never again return this place, and you never again seek me out.”
His smile fell, and he wrinkled his smooth, brown brow. He stared for a moment at the merciless back of the one who would not beg and felt a sudden loss. The arch of her neck killed him with its own bend, sharper than the swords he ever fought with. He turned on his heel and walked away, the winds carrying his footsteps farther, he thinking of moonlight and her stories, knowing that he would be, at last forgotten.
Man and his visibly pregnant wife are in bed together. His chest was bare and he kept looking at his cell-phone for the alarm to ring. The woman just had bouts of her routine morning-sickness. She was paled and breathless.
Woman sits up with an effort and puts a hand on his arm.
Woman: “Please, don’t go to work today.â€
Man: “Trust me, I’d rather stay home but I’ve got loads of shit to do. The crazy clients do not understand a fig. My team-members are a bunch of morons. Is there something wrong?â€
Woman: “No, not really. Have a good day.â€
Man: “It’s just, we really need the money with the baby coming. I really need to go to work for that…. But I still love you, you okay?â€
Woman: “I’m fine. I’m, just…. I’m just….these god damn hormones.. and, you’re right, you should go to work. Promise you would call me every hour.â€
*Man stands up. He bends down to kiss her. The alarm goes off and He picks his cell phone up off the nightstand and starts dialing.
Man: “Dave, it’s Jack. Sorry but I won’t be able to make it in today… No, it’s personal. I can’t explain it though. Thanks. Bye.”
Woman: “I’m so scaredâ€.
Man: “Yeah, me too but I’m here. Things are gonna be okay, you’ll see. I love you.â€
*Man puts his hand down on top of hers..!
And he murmured to himself, with Whitman
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love
If you want me again, look for me under your boot soles.
The hospital alley was as swarmed as ever. There was a flood in the town, bad relentless rains for last three days. The people were brought in, rushed as many in one room, with doctors doing their shifts all day long. Children crying, big old men dying and there was no less of sorrow in one hollow room. People lost, only to be found dead in the mortuary which had no land left to burn their pyres.
And the merciless rains poured on.
It was 27th May or sometime around then.
In the midst of this cacophony, her daughter was born. As pretty as a pearl drop shining in the rains. She felt her best just holding her little fingers. She was blinded to the world coming to an end outside, her own world beginning to be born. It was raining still, it looked like a 7PM sky at noon. They were coming home today, mother, father and the little girl.
Their two year old son was restlessly waiting outside in the patio; getting drenched in the rains, his restiveness matching the skies above. He ran after every car crossing the streets and came back dripping in his own disappointment.
And they finally arrived.
The boy ran to the car and came back holding his momma’s little finger. He was more than happy with her mother back home, he missed her.
And then he asked them: Can I spend some time alone with my little sister? This surprised his mother. “Oh Darling, your little sister. Needs some rest, she has just made most amazingly tiring journey. Let her sleep for now and probably sometime later you can play with her”.
A few days past, he again asked his mother if he could spend some time alone with his sister. The mother was worried leaving the baby with a two year old. So this time she got him an ice-cream.
Next time, a toy train and another time it was a huge ball.
A few months past, the little child again asked if he could spend some time alone with his sister.
The parents agreed, and the child was left alone with his sister for a few minutes, while the parents stood by the door, listening furtively.
The little boy holds his sister’s finger and asks her-
“Tell me what GOD looks like, cause I am starting to Forgetâ€.
Why there has to be the blues.
There has to be the blues because
Some kinds of sadness are as good as being happy.
Or misery loves company.
Why people have to die.
People have to die because
There has to be room for new people.
Or living forever would be boring as hell.
Why loneliness is fundamental physics.
Loneliness is a universal constant because
If you took every person who ever lived
And gave them their own galaxy
There’d be a lot of galaxies left over.
Or because you’re far from me.
Why there has to be Antarctica.
Antarctica has to be so there was somewhere close we could go
To see what the rest of the universe was like.
Or because God forgot to put something at the bottom.
Why it has to hurt.
It has to hurt to remind you everything has a consequence
That ripples through everyone else’s life.
Or it’s sympathy for exploding stars.
Why I smile when I look into your eyes.
I smile when I look into your eyes because
I’m happy I’m close to you again.
Or I remember you from my dreams.
“Oh Dammit, we are not having this argument again!!” He screams at her, with all his acrimony carved out in the lifeless room. Her eyes were glassy, she wanted to cry, she almost was, but stood on.
And it made him livid!
He had been missing for last two nights. A business trip kept him away as much as she saw him as seldom as his other friends. He had been long gone; she kept herself busy with her paintings.
She just looked at the newspaper, edged out on the corner table.
He slammed it on her face, a murky picture of melancholy and grief.
And he walks out of the room. His cell was ringing unobtrusively and her sight made him sick. He loved her, but that was seven years ago.
She looked at him walking away. Picks up the newspaper and tidily folds it up to the table. The paper read her Name in Bold; she was awarded the KAVA award only yesterday for her art works. She looked pretty in the picture; her dark aura was conjured well with the portrait in her paintings…abandoned and solitary.
She swabs off her eyes and walks to the room where he was smoking up in the dim corner. She walks up to him, stretches her arm with the newspaper in it. He glances up hesitantly, and reads the paper.
He hugs her “Darling, I am so proud of you”.
Yes, he loved her and that was seven years back.
It was a chance that I met you, totally unforeseen but welcome. It had to be at the most unexpecting places, at a grocery store and you stood by the corner. Lost but inviting. I could not believe myself that it was you. I had to come closer; and you did not move a slight. As if you expected me to be there, finding you. It was not the first time, but before it used to be more planned, and scheduled. I knew exactly where to meet you, mostly you used to set up the time and place. I hated to call you back home; I never did enjoy the meeting as much as I did when I was out in open with you. It gave you an extra dimension, a feel, a life to you. Your eyes, the wrinkled look was sexier in open then in inside of a living room. No one else approved of you much, I never had been sly about my relationship with you. I remember telling my best of friends that I am good with my bond with you- knowing that I can never have you but meeting you in a month or two gives me my achievement, seeing you in your life happy and playful gave me my own accomplishment.
and you know she’s half crazy
and that is why you wanted to be there
But that day, I had to call you home. You asked me to come and meet you, week after weeks but it was good 250miles and I never did take that too seriously. I was occupied, lazy and dismissed your tempts. But that day, seeing you at the grocery store was a surprise, a gush of life through my head. And I asked you to come home, as much as I hated it. You were unwelcomed; people at home mocked you and me likewise. I felt bad for you and more for myself. They could not comprehend you and they failed to understand me. I left you alone in the room for a while, giving me time to prepare myself to meet you. Making others understand to be more acceptable of you. But others don’t change. You didn’t seem to mind them. And you were ready for me..and for others too.
But you had changed, with a grey tone around you and your wrinkled eyes looked older than ever. But your smile was just the same, saying you understand why I had to meet you at home and why I could not come where you asked me to come for weeks. You understood it all. You gave me the same rush but it made me uncomfortable as no one else could understand how I did feel with you around. And I could not have them or myself with them against you. I had to drop you back at the same place where I found you…Sadly you were not even finished. I just gave you ten minutes and I had to stop it.
I left you at the same corner. I understood why your eyes were more wrinkled and I spotted that tinge of sadness then. I understood it all. And you did not complain. May be you knew that this time I would make my trip. People at home asked me to move on but I was stuck. Looking at you, dropping you off, tore my heart. But I could not accept you in the grey tones inside the house. It had to be at your place, at your time with your extra dimension.
And I would come.
“Yes, many loved before us
I know that we are not new
In city and in forest, they smiled like me and you
But now it’s come to distances
And both of us must try
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.”
Its the cracked ones That let Light into the world
Diffused, punctuated with rainbows of tears
Sadness is just a crack in my life
That I fall into, sometimes
Sloppy, clumsy, and weary
not watching, unaware and tired
Misunderstood, arranged to be pushed
Sadness is just a crack in the sidewalk
a space inviting, and dark
I’d rather not stay, just step over the gap
It’d feel like a walk in the park.
A painful reminder of imperfection
My habit to step in harm’s way.
This sidewalk, the smoothness ends shortly
A new route wont come up today.
Or ever…
Sadness is just a crack in my life
That I fall into, sometimes…
Give it up baby,
a whimper would be fine
Some kind of clue that you’re doing time
Some kind of heartache
Honey, give it a try.
I had to call her because I wanted something more than her letter. It was so clean, so therapeutic I couldn’t let it go. We had been through so much together I could not believe that she could be so banal; so simple. It was not enough that she “felt bad”. Or if “she was sorry” That wasn’t even close to the feeling I had; the feeling I wanted her to have.
What did I want? What did I want her to say? How about Lost, how about slaughtered, betrayed-. We were together for as long and she talks about it like it was just a phase, as if we were a bad haircut or part-time job.
It’s not enough that I am now on my own. Not nearly enough. We were one, one mind, one soul. I think the least she can do is join in the misery. Share and feel alike.
Â
Could you cry a little?
lie just a little,
pretend that you’re feeling a little more pain?
I gave, now I’m wanting something in return
So cry just a little, for me?
Hey , You Open?
Yes Madam, Come on In. We are open for another twenty minutes. You just in time.
Oh am glad, Really!
So what can I help you with today? We still have our Christmas Stock lasting for SALE and with Valentines and Presidents Day round the corner, deal cannot be any better.
That’s nice. But I am not in for anything fancy. I just need..umm…
Ummm..?
Yes, you see I need a ..Mmmm….MASK.!!
A Mask? Hmm and that would be …As in?
Yeah the Mask, the one that can hide your true-self from the World and show the world what they want to see.
Hmmm..! I guess, we all need that kinna stuff.
So..? So..would you have any such thing?
Wait, lemme think. I guess you might just be in luck.
Is it? I am ready to pay any price for it.
……………Uncomfortable Silence……………..
Wait a minute madam, let me take a quick rush to the store. I would be just back.
Alright, I would.
………….15minutes Gone. Uncomfortable but soothing time passing By……………..
Uhh…Uhh….I am sorry Madam. I took longer than I expected. But here I got just what you need.
………Takes a huge bag out with all the different shapes and sizes of MASKS falling out one by one…………
Here.. This one is real “Sunny”. Can bright up the light in the room. You wear it and you are always Happy to the World. Lifting the World, by your Smile and Joy..!!
And here, this one is my favorite. “Inspirational”, I call it. You got this one on and the World looks UPTO you. I guess it has a magic aura to itself, gives a glow to the eyes. Intrigued..!!
And here…this one is the HIT with the KIDS, Joyful and playful. Brings the kid out dancing in your face. You must have one of those in your kitty too..
Umm I like it..!
And here, your collection cannot be complete without this- It’s the most magnificent of all-”Sympathetic”. That’s what OUR World really needs, Lotta sympathy with listening ears. You put this one ON and people would be magnetized to you, venting all the sorrows out like you are the Mother Mary. It is a huge success in the psychological profession.
And this is all I have Madam for you right now. But I would Order in more if you would like something more than this. I know we can fit in more like GREED, PASSION, SOBRIETY, MADNESS in there. But that may take in a while..
Oh Yes, but you are forgetting something here, We may need something more than that.
What is it Madam? Pl. enlighten me..
We need Sadness. No emotion is complete without it, no day, no life is untouched without …Sadness.
Yes you are Right Madam, so right. But we never make Masks for those.
Oh, why is that??
Coz for Sadness, you really do not need a Mask. All you need is your true exposed self.
Hmm….
I would take All of these. Please I should get going, and yeah keep that “SUNNY” MASK on the Top. Thanks, you have been much help.
You dreamed for peace and quiet, and it is here
Arrived at your doorway on Northerly zephyrs,
Not gradually, but all at once,
but the chill does not stir your idle furnace .
So many days you have longed for the immobility of an empty room
So many hours of rushing lives in the Crowded Bus
And sweaty grocery store aisles ..
And now
You have the four walls to yourself
No shrill nags in the hallway
And your couch has plenty of room
plenty
Why are you dreaming of a Lemonade in March?
and Why does this taste like a hot chocolate in July?
Could the timing have been any worse?
Tonight you will sleep to the sound of barking dogs outside.
And think why the neighbor could not get theirs’ tamed
And look at your own life going wild and forlorn.
You’ll leave the bathroom light on and the door a little ajar for no reason
And tomorrow you’ll raise the shades to a mother of pearl sunrise
And orange light will shine on your face
But you won’t say
Look at this!!
Because you don’t like talking to yourself
You’ll just get dressed
And run to the bus
And hope that it’s very very very
Crowded
The Old Man walked slowly on the deserted Road. It was 5’o clock in the morning and his Morning walk marked the dawn of his day, everyday. He felt a little forlorn; he had overheard his son talking to his wife, mentioning plans of an old age house. He felt a pain in his knees, a throbbing of a shifted heart. “Changed Timesâ€! he sighed
His blurred eyes, spotted it. It was lying by the side of the road, squashed. The paper attempted to catch up with the float of the breeze, but the gravity pulled it a little harder then.
Piqued, the old man bent down to pick it up. The paper aeroplane, a child’s flight of fancy, a work of Art of Wright Brothers with a touch of Fall of Icarus. Gingerly, he rind open the craft, careful so as not to slash.
On one side, he found a raw sketch of a woman and a child. Hand in hand, purple hued. A speech bubble above the child said :
                 ”Is this why we can Never Fly like that Birdie! Mom ?”
The pain felt better in the knee. The Old Man, kept the paper inside his pocket and strolled further to the rear end of the road.
7 AM and he was seated contentedly on his arm-chair. His morning cup of tea was missing, a forewarn of the likeness of times ahead. He found Yesterday’s newspapers with highlighted Old Age Homes classifieds.
“Peace for your after-years, Longing for its yesters†said one of them. It was the farthest, an overnight journey would disconnect his bonds with his Home and his family.
His fingers ruffled the pockets and felt the creased aeroplane. He took it out clumsily. The sketched child looked familiar but he knew that familiarity bred contempt.
 On the reverse, there was a crafted depiction of a small cottage. It was complete with white besieged fence, colorful marigold, lacy curtains and a Locked door. To one side, was a garden a green bean teepee in the center. Blueberry bushes and Raspberry plants to the left; ivy trailing up along the brick chimney, framing it in green splendor. The Garden Paradise!!
Above the house was a white puffy cloud the kinds that caste no shadow. Upon it sat a man, an ANGEL complete with his wings and halo, smiling to the earthliness below.
The old man stood up. He carefully refolded the paper back into the airplane it was, sharpening the creases and opening it up like new. Then, he launched it into the air toward the sky, watching the wind carry it away higher and higher-once again on the breeze as it should be.
A spasm rose over her spine. She twitched to her side and made a passe’ to the uneasy feeling. Pain and nausea twist around each other and will not be broken apart.But it did not heed to the girl’s voluntary ignorance. She missed her work and her boss was smug about it because he never got cramps, ever. Lest he fed on some street side junk, beaming with flies and foul.
Her life was halted, she cursed the nature’s decree every single time. She walked a little stooped then, a little drift marked her otherwise unsympathetic stroll. And now she was stood tranquil; her body and mind worked on a different prototype.
And she sat still at home. She pined for a nicotine drag, but she felt not too favorable and not too tough. The paroxysm was a little stronger; she felt hapless and tried to seize her existence in the times of hurting and woe. She wanted to call him but was defying her hankering.
She came out to get her supplies of Advil. She could not stop thinking about her boss’s conceit, she could not stop thinking about anything unpleasant. The worst part about her cramps was that she could not lock herself out from unpleasant thoughts, she lacked the power of “wishful thinkingâ€. She tried to think about clouds, and grass, children on the swings, pre-pubertal girls rolling in sand, but she felt more spiteful. All her organs wanted to get out of her body.
Driving over the speed bump in front of her apartment made her want to cry, because of the way the pain slushed inside her belly, and from the small relief of being home where she could curl over and try to breathe. She was hot and cold and hot again.
The smell of her apartment, the smell of her own hands, the smell of the joint she was trying to roll, all were twisted, gone terribly wrong. She emptied the wastebasket just in case. She wanted to cry, or talk to herself, but both are tiring and neither will get her anywhere, ever.
Don’t care what your health textbook told you was the point of this ritual, the bleeding is only a side effect.
Remember me When I am Gone.
Not for the delusion and the tumult I had caused in your life, not for the person who could not be, the way you wanted her to be. But for someone, who truly loved you once and that was for ever.
For someone, who was hayed across when she could not see you around, hear you around. For someone, who had the reason to smile when she had you, for her, around her.
Those were the perfect days, when she could just spend the whole day, by the window.. waiting for you; or when you were unwell, she stayed up all night with her prayers, praying for you. Â
That was the Perfect Love, a Perfect Life. And now its Over.
Remember me for not what I could be, the bickering aplenty on the sight of your friends, the tantrums that made you loose your temper every time, and for the fights that made you hate me every while.Â
Remember me for some one who could go to any extreme if she could have you in the end. Who could fight with anyone if you could just chose to be her friend, broken amends.
Look for me when I am gone, for you would miss me, the sound of two syllables, that meant the life to be. And I will wait for you, till you could forgive me for what I could not hold and what I ended up in shreds.
I am sorry.
