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.

Oh, rats!

A cat chases a rat. A rat runs from a cat. There is intrigue, the chase is real (almost always), and all the chasing-and-running-and-chasing clearly has a consequence. I have never been much of a believer of opposites-theory. Or, rather, not been a believer of much of anything. But, I guess I am beginning to see reason in the cat-rat chase. One has to like to chase, and the other has to like to be chased. Put two cats, or two rats together, and it couldn't work. Not even if one of the rats pretended to be a cat - you should know that wouldn't last too long!

The good notes - Prelude. Just 'cuz it stayed in my drafts, and I wouldn't delete it.

It was too late for the much needed tub of ice cream. So I did the next best thing. I sat down to watch The Holiday. For the umpteenth time!

Opening score. Winslet's monologue. The fairytale cottage. The melodrama. The wit. The mush.
It works. Every time.

"Don't blow away."
I repeated.

"Okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kiss you twice... and then linger a long time on the second kiss."
I blushed.

Definitely got me into true blue sweep-me-off-reality spirits!

Then came the scene at the video shop.
"Okay. Driving Miss Daisy. Hans. Very unexpected. Do you remember how great it was?"  [Jack Black does an impression of soundtrack]

And I thought, "Right away!"

It was love at first hear.
Sassy, sassy, sassy!

It wouldn't be quite untrue if I said I could watch the movie again, only for it's soundtrack. And, I've been hooked on for a while now.

The good notes. : http://ramansneha.blogspot.in/2013/03/the-good-notes.html

Folie à deux.

Too weird if I said it's a beautiful thought? Romantic, even?

Folie à deux.

My junkyard.

At age nine when kids my age chased dogs and caught dragon flies, I wandered the block collecting ‘stuff’ I called ‘creative junk’. They were safely deposited into a carton I nicknamed ‘My Junkyard’. Soon the junk grew to two, three, four.. ten.. cartons, and when I moved to my apartment two years back I finally created ‘my creative junkyard’ above the garage. My work is inspired by the random objects collected in different periods of life. Random thoughts. Random emotions. Random inspirations. My friends called it trash. They now call it art.

(A write-up for a concept board that I'd done couple of years back, and stumbled on accidentally today. The garage is still a distant dream. But, someday.)