Some stories.

I want to fall in love again. Give my heart to someone, and not be concerned about what he does with it. I want to pour my thoughts into him, even let them overflow, and let my words glide in the atmosphere. Some of them calm, some of them full of gentleness, some of them full of a happy, content nothing. Nothingness, a feeling I've derived very recently. Sometimes it comes alone, weeping out solitude, bringing with it a shudder. This nothingness is different, it has satisfaction. It has a tinge of completion in it, like it has resulted from the finish of a greater good.

There are a lot of things I'd want to tell this person, like my fears, in numerous fears. Of turning into someone I am scared of confronting. The same old sharp tongue, the callous attitude, the pretense of not being concerned, when inside, every word of acrimony would cut you slack. Not being someone I'd never want to befriend, not someone whose sight I would be repulsed by. The fear of losing someone I cannot live a day without. Whose texts light up my face, who considers me a punching bag and who roams around in striped boxers in the coldest winters for no reason, whose constant sarcasm and insults to me are only a reminder of how adorable a brother he is.

Maybe I'd tell him of that which is gone, though its been long since I shared a whisper with the Past. The last time we conversed we ended on a sad note, we had nothing to say, because I have already given it a little too much thought, a little too much of my time. I'd reach it instantly, no time machine required. Back then, every time I tried catching my dream, it was but a mirage. There were too many people I had interacted and broken up with. Too many make ups, break ups. Some said I talked a lot. Still do.

You talk too much
Maybe that's your way
Of breaking up the silence

That fills you up

Anxiety ate my mind then and inhibitions had clouded my brain.The Past is buried. Well, at least I hope so.

I would share my joys. The tiny ones, about that dear friend of mine whose laughter I find infectious, after talking to who, my mind feels lighter. We laugh. We laugh a lot, and that is the kind of laughter I'd want from him. Easy, carefree, even a little obtuse and stupid. Or maybe the little moments of bliss, we'd have plenty. We'd live in a world where we don't live in hypocrisy, where each moment of our existence is not marred by make-believe, by words we never mean, by actions we are not responsible for.

Now things are different, I have more stories to share with him.

They're happier stories. Of laughter. Of moments whose sanctity and beauty words would spoil. There were times I realized I was only obsessed with pain. Aren't we all? We surround ourselves with a dismal, uncouth silence and solitude and yet pretend to be happy about it. Strange are the ways of the world. They confuse me, always shall I guess. The hypocrisy. It annoys me the most.

Now there is reading. A lot of reading. And the sheer joy it has started giving me. And writing too. The interaction with people has changed, though the constant fear of growing too close to someone, and losing it all still lingers. We hear of introverts and all the trouble they take in making small talk, and there are people like me, who're so talkative that they feel scared of becoming too open and vulnerable. This feeling has remained.

Coming back to the stories I'd share with him. There is soft laughter, merriment, coffee-stained pages, and a bear hug. We'd begin with them, and joy would follow. Hopefully.