A few stories. A lot of pain.

I only lie back and stare at the ceiling fan. It doesn't make any sense. Like so many other things. The lamp is flickering too. Its strange, incredibly strange. I think your surroundings depend on your mood. When you're low, the stars stop shining, the night seems darker, more threatening, and inside, a part of you is dying. And you know what, when does it hurt even worse? When you're a family and yet you aren't together. You're sleeping in different rooms. You're talking but not really 'conversing'. The words are hollow, they don't hold any substance, they mean nothing. Things are superficial. And life is dull. They're your parents, and their quarrels are driving you insane. You're giving them so much, and have been trying so hard to put things in place, and for once you're not wrong. You've tried, in numerously. You've been hurt, a little too often. You know the worst feeling? When you don't know what to feel. Is it numbness, is it fear, is it melancholy or is it an abysmal mixture of all of them? I wish I knew.

In another place, you're living with a void. There's no one to look over you. You're supposed to be the happiest git among your friends, and guess what ? Astoundingly, you're still smiling. Your mother lost her life 6 years back, and destiny came and hit you right at your face again, you just saw your dad breathing his last. You have a sister, she isn't married, and you're still supposed to smile and act all strong. Guess what? You're still smiling. A fake, superficial one at that too. There're no reasons to live, or so you think. You still have to fight, because they should think your're strong. Ingenuity, you've probably lost all of it, though its only momentary. And once again, you don't know what to feel. Is it revulsion, fear, terror, angst, anxiety ? Or none of them? Oh yes, you're supposed to be strong.

You know when it hurts even more? When these two stories are not your own, but of two people who're closest to you.

The lesser known feelings.

I like going back to Delhi. I love the way it is a beautiful amalgamation of different cultures. And also because Delhi is where I fell in love. And for once falling in love was not synonymous with falling into a bitter nothingness.
He gave me incessant, carefree laughter and brought me close to myself. The real lover is the man who can thrill you by kissing your forehead or smiling into your eyes or just staring into space.

Our trip was planned. We were sure we wouldn't fall for each other, but today when I've worked so hard and finally pushed Farhan at the back of my mind, I have other things to say. I realized remembrance is a form of meeting and forgetfulness a sweet freedom. Not clinging onto something has been comforting, and has given me a weird sense of security.
Solitude used to be beautiful, and I cherish every bit of it. Then, I didn't quite remember the story of the pure, white paper who appreciated its own beauty and said that it'd better be burnt to ashes than touched by one so unclean. The ink bottle heard the paper and laughed in its dark heart, so did the multi-colored pencils, but neither dared to move close to the sheet of paper. Ofcourse, the paper remained pure and chaste forever, pure, chaste and empty.

He filled me. With himself. With myself. And instilled a new me in me.

While it lasted, it was a different world.