The rabbit hole.

She never really recovered, he said.

And, I saw it in his eyes;

he knew.

He still loves her, he said,

Just not the same way that she loves Him.

On the Clown and die-cuts. And coffee.

I have had the perfect title for about a year now. But not the words.

The notion of love.

A younger me once asked, "Are you in love, or are you more in love with the notion of being in love?" I have since hated my guts for this awfully insensitive, foot in mouth inquiry. And, over a period of time argued against this need to define and organize sentiments into sets of absolutes. Yet, I find myself asking this every once in a while. And, wondering if the notion of love isn't, after all, more liberating.

Pancakes

Some days start with pancakes.
And, long stretches of procrastination.

Music.
Feeling lonely.
Staring out of the window.
Some more pancakes.
Tea.

Today.

I'm finally home.

Four months. Three countries. Seven cities.

It is finally starting to feel like I am doing what I want to be doing. And, I am where I should be.

No, it has not been easy. And, no, life is not perfect.

But, yes, I am happy. And, grateful.

This year I make no exception-- I wear my brooding pajamas and keep that tub of ice cream very close to me; it's the year end and this is what I do. But, this year I feel more content in my brooding. It feels like finally I'm home.

You were my person.

And, I believed I was yours.

Today it seems like a lifetime ago and in a different space that I may have known you. And, you, me.

I wish that you may remain in the past - where you belong. And, yet, every time life takes a turn, I look by my side - I look for you. And, I realize, how much harder it is to put you locked up in the past. I wish to forget you. I wish to not look for any one, especially not you, by my side. The void I find when I look, hurts. But, it hurts more that I am still looking - at the void. The void. That was once my person. That was once you.

Longing.

I once had a friend.

Sometimes when we spotted rain clouds, we would pack our mobile phones and some change for an ice cream or a burger from Nirulas in a plastic pouch, tuck it into our pockets and walk to the park across the road from our hostel. We would sit on the grass for long, waiting for the rain and talking. Most often it wouldn't rain. And we would walk back, secretly hoping that it would rain soon and we get to enjoy it on a quiet holiday like this, before the winters set in. Perhaps it drizzled on one of the days, or may be it did not - I cannot be sure now. What I remember vividly is our longing for the rain and how we would ceremoniously get ready for it.

Today looks like one of those days that we would have packed our mobile phones and some change in a plastic pouch, tucked it into our pockets and walked to the park across the road. To wait for the rain.