Sometimes when you have strayed too far, drunk gulps of unrealized warmth, blown like a hurricane, inhaled and exhaled and lost and found and lost and left many in old telephone directories, in subway trains, in yellowing diaries, in deleted mails, in forgotten conversations, and are suddenly caught for breath, you halt a tad little while on way.
And then is when a few things make frightening sense.
Then is when some of the best things in life are realized, as you look back at them.

And so it happened one day, in a certain city of Eastern India, that a fat-nosed, Tall Dark Dorian Gray told a Young Little Girl with Pony Tails that there were words in her eyes; and too many of them, living in her lonely sockets, like clustered islands, like scattered rags, like broken thoughts, like strewn music, like unfinished poetry, each with an eternity of its own, each with an epic to spin.

Perhaps it was just the play of lights. (so her pony-tailed head reasoned, and her pony-tailed heart assumed) And the clouds and the winds and the lake or perhaps it was just that he loved her a little, sometimes.

But whatever be it, the pair of them lived happily, believing they could live in a house where gravity acted at an angle to the vertical, and they died in each other’s eyes, and they died in each other’s words, and they died in each other’s souls, till one day, Suffocation happened.

The External always quietly believed I had a big ego somewhere, but he never said so, for he never cared. He said there were many grays to me that he never had, that he wasn’t sure of. He said I was weird, and a little mad.

It’s difficult being a woman of many shades, the Internal tells me. But if I say our young little girl with Ponytails didn’t love him, it can be wrong. If I say she did, it can’t be right.

If she says I did, it can be wrong, if she says I did not, it can’t be right.

But for once, as the Second Person flatly lied, on numerous occasions, for baseless reasons, and feigned he knew nothing, on numerous occasions, for meaningful reasons, let’s just say, our heart pounded not for Bioelectricity. And then, for once, dalmoot served in dirty orange plates, on rickety tables and in swirling rooms, seemed more tempting than stolen pickles. And there were shades discovered in the middle of drunken words. And there were colors discovered in the middle of a graying soul. And there were hopes discovered in the middle of withering dreams.

Like old dreams, they sprouted, from nowhere.
Like old shadows, they whispered like secrets, they walked in the nights, they whistled while the world was sleeping.

Have you seen someone as mad? Have you been someone as mad? Have you ever pulled up walls just to see who all cared to break through?

There’s something strangely wonderful about Melancholy.
Like the whispers of dusk before evenings, like the sound of dewdrops falling.
Like old faces.
Like school days.
Like fiery sunsets.
Like a power-cut in a rainy evening plowing up old treasures, quietly, from where they were buried by Excuses because of Reasons.

Or, so I think, though, I’m a little mad, and you do not buy my words.

I do not know why I waste my time, writing useless music.

Perhaps, it’s just that when you have sailed too far, drunk gulps of unrealized warmth, blown like a hurricane, inhaled and exhaled and lost and left too many of them in subway trains, in forgotten words, in deleted mails, in withered diaries, in crossroads, and strayed too far from your heart, that you are suddenly all lost and scared and aching.

Perhaps you need to go back then, to home, and to all the things that mean home.