“Come back, but not yet.”
I have slowly started interpreting what loneliness means.
And while I’m surrounded by people whom I love and care about, I somehow see the blurred line unraveling itself. I see the rocking chair, empty.
I see the dried up spills of coffee on the study table. I see the last drops of warm water dripping from the shower. I see the door, half-bolted. And in that moment, I swear I knew what loneliness meant.
For a half-closed door was so much worse than a closed one. And the unlit chandelier, carrier of memories, no, not of my grandparents’ place, but of some person’s passion for antiques, and his wife’s grumpy face for a few months that year she thought she’d buy herself a diamond ring.
Favourite time of the day? I don’t have any. Maybe because I never notice how the sky changes colour as we change veils, or maybe wonder has just become another word, or maybe I’m not just what I should have been.
Sometimes, I pity myself. I pity myself for all that I could have and didn’t, and for the rest that I shouldn’t have, but did. And as I muse into what was done and what could be undone and what could never be redone, I fall in love, hopelessly. My mind is young, wild and free again.
I fall in love, yet again, with the days I felt tremendously happy or dangerously low. And then I laugh, like a three-year old I haven’t seen in ages.
I laugh because sometime back, that person had emotions, now replaced by thoughts. Bold and ailing thoughts, paradoxical, might be.
Sickness is just one side. The other side(s) yet to be rediscovered. I hope they aren’t. For if they are, someday, I might turn into someone I fear I’d despise someone I’ll look at and say “oh! Is that me?” Yes, I was me, and I am me, but somewhere in the journey, I lost the me in me and maybe I’m glad I never found it again.
– Things my 70-year old self said to me