Category Archives: scribbles

It’s a beautiful morning. I remembered you. For hours I let Bach tear my heart (or what’s left of it since you are gone) into a thousand pieces and my tears blind me.

We sit across and look away from each other. While I appear to be busy I peek at you innumerable times during this boring melodrama. You are beautiful and I savour every sight of yours. And there are those occasional awkward moments when our glances meet and we quickly look away again. In those moments I know you know.

Solitude and suffering are the eternal companions of the thinking mind.

I’m solitary. But I wanted to stay immortal in my works, in the memories of the like-minded. That’s done.

Artists convert their emotions and psychological fluctuations into something more concrete and communicable. The creations become a trail of breadcrumbs to their identity. If one closely examines my works or achievements (both technical and art forms) years from now, one will realise how lonely I was when I lived. Each one of them originated in my solitude. Even when I used to be surrounded by a chaotic crowd, my mind shifted itself to an anonymous island surrounded by still blue waters.

People scare me. I can’t relate to them. My misadventures have taught me that everyone has an agenda. But life told me that it’s spontaneous with a dark sense of humour. Everything one considers near and dear are merely ways to distract one from the reality that nothing is permanent. A man, his preoccupations and obsessions will perish. The only question is in which order.

I erased your memories and along with them left the colours of my mind. I realised today that it’s been a while I wrote anything. The truth is – it’s been a while I had wanted to write anything. I think this is the end of “us”. It’s strange because all I ever wanted is someone whom I can communicate to. And you were someone to whom I used to open up like a child; happy and unassuming. But it’s alright. I understand you have your own priorities and listening to my trivia isn’t one of them.

People cross paths by chance. Sometimes they choose to walk and dream together. Who knows how long of a walk is enough to become a journey? How vividly does one have to dream to believe it’s real? Paths end, dreams break. Perhaps what makes it worth the effort are the memories that become a part of you when the walk and the dream are over.

Yet I manage to find these moments of solitude when the two of us sit beside the river flowing through me, the silence occasionally broken by the mild waves, every moment carrying an eternity of bliss in it. And I realise that time has stopped forever on the banks of that river.

You return with every piece of music I drown myself in, your memories step into threads of my thoughts uninvited, I shattered myself into numerous pieces to stay sane in all the realities and fantasies I exist in. What I once had mistaken as love, turned out to be an endless rabbit hole of madness.

It’s not just you I ran away from, I had shut the doors to the entire universe on the way.