home away from home.

a letter

You picked me up when I had fallen so hard; taught me to dream again; dragged me into every possible adventure.
You're there somewhere, I'm having such a hard time finding you and it's breaking my heart. Just to hear you laugh or say something stupid or even just smile.
You are the reason I'm still standing, that I love what I love, that I'm as brave as I am. You were a dreamer who taught me the value of dreams. I miss you so.
I don't know how I have such a hard time fighting this, when you fought so hard for me. Just come back, as you are, it's okay, so we can be the pals we've always been.

i am just a poor boy though my story's seldom told.

Some days you end up sprawled on your polished wooden floor wondering how you got to a place where you feel so empty.

But some days, the thunder echoes louder than your fear. And your music drowns out their existence. And you have a seat. You feel elated. 

You realize that if it doesn't work out in the end, you'll leave. You'll find a way to avoid home. A way to avoid the bitterness that tore at your seams. You'll find a way to survive. Because you were born a fighter. You were raised an achiever. But more importantly, you taught yourself to dream. 

notes from my journal, september 2010

Ravaged by time, the house still stands. It has undergone numerous paintings yet the color looks faded, pale, cold. As though love is a prerequisite for vibrancy. The gate has begun to rust and the walls are crumbling, stone by stone, cement crumble by cement crumble.

It’s hard to stand here objectively, to view it as just another house. It’s hard not to see the Christmas stars we hung on the Verandah. Three because three was what we used to be. Lit up by the 40 Watt bulbs we bought at Manasi Gifts. Three children, blind and unknowing, pitching rocks at the green, unripe mangoes and running to grab them when they had fallen. It never did matter that they were unappetizingly sour. That’s not the point really, is it?

The road that runs in front of the house is pot-hole ridden. I can remember a time when they had recently paved the road. It was the color of coal. Of kohl. Of Indian irises. I wanted to sweep the street every day to make sure it stayed that way.

I walk by. I tell myself it’s because the gate is locked, it’s because the house is locked. But when you get down to it, the truth is blatant. It has lost its value and so I leave.