Silence after Forever

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 The day you left, I travelled alone at night for the first time in my life. I saw the moon floating from the car window. The mist in my eyes, half a can of soft drink, and the cigarette reached to my lips. My hands were shaking while I tried to light the cigarette. My head started to feel relaxed, my shoulders loosened, and my body felt lighter. Along with the rising smoke, I closed my eyes. 

I'm standing outside the old, trodden house, which was once home but is now just a building. The only person who seems to be happy to see me is the caretaker. Funny! Those who were supposed to be satisfied have closed the doors of their hearts a long time ago. Happiness is temporary, so subjective; we can't really be happy for others, we always listen and believe whatever suits our thinking. Our idea of truth is only ours. My truth can never be your truth. Is there any space where this word happiness truly exists? For societal validation, is this idea of so-called sacrifice essential? Essential, necessary, important, requisite, all these words now seem so hollow, so shallow to me.

The food is on the table, but where is my appetite? I looked at my hands, always polished, always bejewelled. I'm afraid that I will dip my fingers into the food, my nails will be destroyed, or my pretence of being a happy man, I don't know. I know, yes, I know it all, but sometimes I do wish to obliterate all. 

I'm lying on my bed, the time of the day when I think about you the most. You would have hated my colored hair and ripped jeans. Now no one cares, although I do listen to rustling leaves behind my bedroom walls. I wish to stop them, but now it no longer makes sense.

I want to be born as a flower over your grave, or maybe the bird that flocks around. The cat enters my room, sniffs me for a while, then decides to sit at the window, her usual place. Your glasses by the side of my bed need cleaning. There is a need to change the curtains, the vase has some cracks, cracks like a rift in hearts. Need, again, Essential, necessary, important, requisite. Again, there is a feeling of hollowness. 

The roses are lying beside me, and my diary is open, the only thing I wrote is your name, again and again, that's why I like to type more than write with a pen. While typing, I have command over my thoughts, and my hands follow me.  I heard a fox howling from far; it's the only thing on this winter night that seems to be awake with me. 

Tomorrow I won't be here again; the only thing I will be carrying with me is a passport-sized photo in my wallet and some foreign currency. The real wealth will remain here, forever buried, forever lost. 

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Nidhi katoch
A silent observer in search of her TRUE HOME. If you like my writings, do comment and share... Views are extremely personal and are original writings of mine.

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