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.
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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.

Mothers know best.

Mother always used to tell me, “Be careful who you choose to love.” I used to shrug her off, as if it’s a choice. Love for me, always happened just like that. You can’t choose who you fall for, you don’t get to decide who your heart wants.

But you see, mothers are always right. Right now, I think what she meant was not to be careful who I fell in love with, but who I decided to stay with. Because staying in love, in a relationship, in a place is always a choice. You can’t choose who you’ll fall in love with, but you can always decide whether you want to stay or move on.

So now I tell myself, be careful who you stay in love with; don’t let a weak soul destroy your strong heart.