Will I ever be not ready for it?

“You’ve been such a wonderful writer, you know. It gives me so much happiness when I see you surprised and smiling at the same time to know that I had already liked your blog before you told me you had posted a new one recently. 

Do you never wonder why am I so curious everytime to see what you’ve written lately? Will you ever wonder? 
I still search myself in your words. I still try to find something that is between the lines, something that is just for me, that’s left unseen by evertbody else. You told me that a writer’s work is inspired and influenced by what happens in their lives but they present it in a way that is so different yet so similar to what has happened with them in reality. Well, we’ve had our moments. We’ve had moments when we were standing on the edge our our cliffs, just about to fall into each other. I know we never fell, but the feeling, the  exasperation, the desperation and the tiredness, was it not worth writing about? Well, I still search for mentions about me in your lines, while you are the one who’s just always dominated my pieces. 

I am still standing on the edge of the cliff while you’ve returned. Five years back, I would never have believed in the power of emotions and attachments. But now, I know that a human can feel everything so very deeply, each and every day of their lives for as long as five years (and more).

Since the day I met you for the first time, I’ve been ready for it, ready for us. But will you ever be ready for it?”

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I’ll fall in love with a writer.

I’l fall in love with a writer. 

Because his words would be able to bring life to the lifeless. He won’t just see things but feel them. He wouldn’t see black as dark but poetic. He wouldn’t see the sky like a cluster of clouds above us but as a part of some other universe that exists parallel to this one. He’ll know what I want before I want it, because he’ll know every dimension of me, the bitter and the sweet, the stormy and the calm, that too better than anyone else could have known. He won’t just touch my hands, face or body but he’ll touch my soul and leave his imprint on it forever. He’ll have a way with words, and just somehow ordinary things would seem celestial when he’ll write them. He’ll know how to deal with emotions. He’ll let my happiness and pain seep inside me because he’ll know that it’s important to feel both. He’ll know that expression of feelings can do wonders and that’s why he’ll be able to express it all, anger, disgust, happiness, love, frustation either through words he’ll speak or through the poetry he’ll write. He’ll have a different way of making me feel special. He’ll not speak much in front of everybody else. People may consider him an introvert or even mysterious, but at the end of the day, when there’s nobody around he’ll let me turn the pages of his life which nobody else is allowed to. I’ll be his confidante and favourite reader. And whenever we’ll sit together, he may not look me in the eye or may not speak much, but silence would become the language we’ll love conversing in.


I’ll fall in love with a writer because writers do not just fall in love, they drown in it, they create their own worlds in it and they do things that are extraordinary to us but ordinary to them. 

And when I do fall in love with a writer, I’ll own pages of his book and he’ll own a part of me. And it won’t matter if we are together or not. Our love story would forever be alive in his words and that would just be enough.

Revelations.

I was searching through my closet and I found some things dear to me earlier, missing. One, my hoodie and second, your heart. You took both of them with you and never returned. This got me thinking. When we were together, you thought you knew everything about me, everything that I felt, everything that I liked. So, now that we aren’t together anymore, let me reveal to you things that you never knew. I never told you these things myself because I had grown to the idea that ‘the way you liked things to be was the best way for things to be’. Well, they weren’t or else we would have stayed together.

I want to tell you that I never had a thing for getting up in the morning late but one day, when I had tried to get out of bed at around 5 in the morning, you pulled me and tugged me in the blanket, kissing me and sushing me back to sleep. It was the best sleep I had in a while and after that I never tried getting up early again.

I wanted to tell you that I love my coffee hot and light, not the way you liked it, cold and dark. But since everyday you woke up before me and made me coffee, I never complained because this small gesture meant a good beginning of the day to me. 
I hated cricket, and I’ve always liked football. But whenever we came home from the office and you switched on the tv, I never asked you to watch the football match because I knew that you’ll get bored soon and would go to sleep rather than being with me on the sofa, keeping your arms around my waist and my head resting on your shoulders. I liked it that way. 
I wanted to tell you that I never liked the yellow coloured dress that you bought for me when we went to shopping together. I agreed to wear it on my birthday only because you said that I looked beautiful in it. And at that point of time, that was all I needed.
I also want to tell you that I would always prefer eating food bought from a dhaba, on our terrace together, rather than going to an extravaganat restaurant for having some continental food. I had always been ‘desi’ but because of you, I thought that trying new things would not harm. And believe me, after you left, I’ve been eating a lot of paneer tikkas and rumali rotis.
Also, do you remember our last movie date? I tried so hard not to sleep while the movie was on, but I failed miserably and that too many a times. I don’t know if you noticed. Or maybe you didn’t care. You didn’t know, but I loved science fiction a lot more than love stories. But while I was in love with you, they seemed bearable. But now, I live on movies like Star Wars and Interstellar.
I don’t know if you’ll ever get to know about the things I like. I know you don’t care anymore. But if you ever read this, then just know that you thought you were perfect and you knew me better than anyone but you didn’t, because you never cared to ask. Now that I think about it, I feel that you knew me the least. I still wonder when this relationship turned into a compromise that I couldn’t keep on making anymore.

Lastly, if you ever get a chance, send me my hoodie back because there’s still a place left for it in my closet, but not for your heart.

It’s been long.

“It’s platform no. 10 today. It was quite tiring coming here as I had to climb up stairs two storeys high and then walk all the way from platform 5 to 9, to finally reach platform no. 10. I did what I usually do. There wasn’t enough space to walk without any discomfort so I took a seat on a bench, already half occupied by a couple. I had to wait, like every day. Yesterday, I had waited on platform 9, and on platform 8, the day before. My body was already aching and my muscles were cramping but I had learnt to bear this pain. But my soul wasn’t tired. Nor did it give any symptom of getting tired any time soon.

The clock struck 5 in the evening, just an hour after I had to go home from work, only I had grown more habituated to these platforms than my bedrooms and they felt more like my home than any other place with room over and furniture in it. I suddenly heard the siren of a train approaching the station and the crowd gathering, just like sheep gather when the shepherd arrives, some wanting to board the train and some waiting to meet their acquaintances after a long wait. I belonged to the latter category of people. The wheels of the trains slowed down and I just knew somehow that it wasn’t the train I had been waiting for. The passengers started getting off the train, and the people on the platform started searching for people they knew. Some held hands to avoid the chance of getting lost in the crowd. I saw their eyes, so full of anxiety and desperation and the gleam that appeared in them when they caught their loved ones in the crowd. It made me happy, but saddened me more. My eyes caught the sight of a girl, around seventeen, standing beside me looking at the books in the book stall. She went to the book stall and bought ‘The fault in our stars’ by ‘John Green’. I thought it was nothing less than a cliché for a teen to buy a book that made you dream so much that after reading it, reality felt like a nightmare. It had been my favourite book once upon a time.

It had been five long years now. Five long years of waiting for a train that never came. For the last two years, since he had started breaking his promises a little too often, I had been coming here every day, looking at people, places and everything that nobody cared to look at. I knew the place so well, that I could tell you exactly how many washrooms this platform had, and which was the day on which the book vendor would change the books in the showcase of his shop. Every time a train arrived, I looked at the families, stuck together, helping each other to unload baggage from the train. And I felt devastated. A year ago family is what I had wanted and dreamt of having too. Not just any family, but one with him. We could have stayed anywhere, and I would have loved to call that ‘anywhere’ my home. Every time I smelled coffee brewing in a café somewhere on the station, I am reminded of his aroma, so strong yet impalpable. Every time someone bought the morning newspaper from the newspaper stand, I giggle at his habit, which I got habituated to, of telling me the news everyday while we ran to catch the bus so that we could reach the office on the right time. But then tears roll down my eyes, invisible to the crowd, but so wet to the skin. And every time, I see human beings with feelings in their eyes, skin red with warmth, actions by their limbs and words flowing out their mouths, I laugh at my incapability to express. I pity my weary body, but I laugh hard on my soul, vexed but not yet tired. I laugh hard because tomorrow it’ll be platform no. 11.”

Bit by bit.

Via The Daily Prompt : Substandard

“We used substandard feelings. No wonder it collapsed.

Maybe the love we had was flawed, or maybe it wasn’t love after all, only a current of infatuation shaking us from where we were before because love means giving, but all we did was take everything from each other.

Maybe the warmth of your hands on my cheeks made my spine cold enough to make me drift away from you.

Maybe your mellifluous voice wasn’t the only thing needed to attract me in a room full of people.

Maybe good night texts that you sent didn’t leave me awake all night thinking of how I lucky I was to have you.

Maybe when I told you that I would wait for you forever, you put all your efforts measuring it.

Maybe it wasn’t what I thought it was.

Maybe we used substandard feelings, no wonder it collapsed. ”
Am I still supposed to force myself into believing that?