Timeline.

Thirteen and half years old me wanted to travel around the world and write. She wanted to be a single mother by the time she was 30, she didn’t care if she ended up being alone. She wanted to fix the climate change. She wanted to stop global warming and prevent the earth from being destroyed by humans. She wanted to know what happiness felt like.

Sixteen and half years old me wanted to preserve the endangered wildlife, the tigers and the lions, the snow leopards and the elephants. She wanted to go to Africa and learn about chimpanzees and lions. She wanted to go to Siberia to look at the birds during summer. She dreamed of having adventures of a lifetime.

Nineteen and half years old me got her first heartbreak by an almost best friend who ghosted her when she was far away from home, sick. By that time, she’d wanted to save the world – prevent wars and abdicate hunger. She wanted to be a wanderer, roaming around aimlessly at times. She’d started doubting if happiness even existed.

Twenty two and half years old me realized she was afraid of being alone and single. That when she was alone, she almost gave up because she was not ready to adult yet. She also decided that motherhood is not for her. She didn’t want her children to know the pain of losing a mother. “The more people you know, the more pain you get” became her philosophy. So, she shut herself off and pushed people away only to realize her solitude acts as venom. She thought that happiness isn’t worth it at all.

Twenty five and half years old me wants to travel the world again. And write. And learn. And experience it all over again. She wants to be a mother, and isn’t scared about being  single. She is ready to be a single mother before she crosses thirty three; because, otherwise, complications. She is finally sorted in her life. She has friends who stood with her when she completely fell apart. She knows what she wants to do in her life (i.e, travel and write and be a museum curator if possible) and how to do it (hello master’s degree!). She, for the first time in life, has Plan B if Plan A fails. She is in love and still heartbroken but she knows that at the end of the day, she will be okay. She is finally happy.

Thirteen and half years old me is kinda proud of twenty five and half years old me. Because sooner or later, I will have done everything I’ve wanted to do as a kid. Maybe, I might do them less frequently than I’d hoped and wished for but I will still be reading, writing, traveling and growing. Because I will not have given up on my dreams. Because I will find happiness. And that is enough and will be enough. For now. For always.

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It’s okay to miss you.

I never thought I would cry about you. I never thought that I would miss you so much that I would break down in the middle of the road. I never thought that unable to hold my tears any longer but not wanting to cause any trouble, I would walk away from everyone else and find a corner for myself to cry, saying I’m sorry.

I don’t know to whom was I asking for forgiveness, was it you or was it me? Or was it no one exactly? But I was sorry. For not having enough courage to tell you that I loved you when I had time. For not making more memories, that I would have passed down to my kids one day, of a man who shaped me for who I am. For not laughing with you on your silly jokes and for not sharing my own sillier ones.

I never thought I would cry about you. But I did. Second time was past midnight, when I was all prepared to go back home. I never thought I would remember that you ended up being the one who waited for me to be back home. You used to call me when I was on my way to check where I had reached so that you could be home when I was home. It wasn’t always like this. You were never home but you were learning and you were trying and you were mending. And now, there would never be you to go back home to.

I never thought I would cry about you. That I would miss you. That I would notice you were gone again. But I did. And after crying for an hour or more, when my tears dried up like a monsoon flood, I was thankful and happy. Because crying for you meant that I missed you. Missing you meant that I had loved you. I never fully accepted my love for you and I was finally allowing myself to do that.

I never thought I would cry about you but I did. And that’s all that matters for now.

I know it seems hard at times. Times like these when nothing seem to go in a right way. You seem to feel all the wrong feelings, mostly emptiness and nothing. You don’t like what you do or produce or feel and every night you wish it were to be the last one.

The thing is you never know how many people love you or were touched by you or were inspired. How many people are waiting to read your next poem or see your next artwork or listen to your next song. For you, these works might not mean anything but for them, it might be their only hope.

And it’s okay to die. That is the whole point of life anyway. Everything we do leads to death. But it’s nicer to live. To feel. Even the emptiness you feel right now. To sleep. To eat. To travel. To meet strangers on the road and have them give you some warmth of their fire. To talk. to drink. To read. To work on more shitty blog posts. For a change, it’s always better to live for oneself – for one more pint of beer, for one more story of your favorite author, for one more word you’ve not written yet. For one more night of warm blanket under the white ceiling where you promised to paint the universe one day.

People – IV.

Some people think you represent light. Your laughter lightens up their day, they say. You somehow are always joking around, you are always full of hopes – of finding love and being happy, of chasing stars and turning dreams into reality.

Some people think you are the night. They would come to you on a full moon night but will stay away during the new moon. They think you are always sad; that you are the epitome of suffering; that you suffer too much – inside your head and outside. That you are always full of angst, anger and rants.

But your people are the ones who see that you live in the edge of darkness and the light. No, they know that there are more layers than just day and night. That you are the various shades of the sky in twilight. That you are sorted in your chaos. That you are full of life, because you’ve known death so well. That you are always laughing around because you live with sadness in your sleeve.

Some people think you represent happiness. Others think you are always sad. But your people knows that you represent ups and downs of life. And that, like life, you always move on.

Leaving holes.

He didn’t leave a hole when he left. It’s because he’d left a big hole even when he was there. Because even when he was there, he was not really there. Sometimes, he was lost without traces. All she could do was wait, for him to come back home. Sometimes, he packed his bags and ran away to some mountains. All she could do was learn about his adventures through the letters he’d send. Sometimes, he took jobs that took him all over the country. All she could do was plan to visit those places in vacations only to realize he was home before that.

The hole grew bigger with each day passing. It became bigger with her realizing that he has been walking in and out of her life, like she was some public parks in the city. It became bigger as she learnt more about how he was absent in her past. It became bigger as he failed to be there for her every time she needed him.

The hole had been filled though. Half of it was filled by her mother. A portion was filled by his brother, another by her grandfathers. Another one by her best friend and another portion by her boss. Then there were the portions filled by boys she sometimes call lovers, always getting replaces for she always believed that men always leave, nobody really stayed.

So now that he is gone, she doesn’t feel a hole in her heart. That hole was filled up and sealed with cement, long time back. Maybe it’s time to dig it up again.