Times like these, I like to feel lonely. I make myself feel lonely. I hunt for words, said & unsaid, and prick myself with them. I think there's a part of me that finds sadness beautiful; a part of me that enjoys the flow of thoughts and colours and sounds in my mind when tears spill. I sound mad, don't I? Sometimes I doubt my own sanity.
In the morning I saw two little boys standing in the back of a Suzuki truck, whooping with their hands in the air while the morning wind whipped their little faces as they drove by. I can't seem to get that image out of my mind. I love the wind. And its steady whispers. How it dances around me, tickles my cheeks, messes up my hair and wafts into my thoughts. I can almost hear it giggling while it glides around, never ceasing in all its joy. I have told you before, haven't I? I'd love to be the wind.
There are several marks of ink on my fingers and the rest of my hands. A heart doodle drawn by a friend, an accidental brush of a black marker that happened during Physics, the word 'Funny' scribbled untidily on the back of my hand and randomly distributed splashes of blue ink. Ink stains make me feel like the writer I want to be one day.
I hate when I catch myself discussing other people. People are who they are and the words I say about them behind their back aren't going to change them. What's the point? Besides, I have too many faults of my own to be focusing on. And there's something else that I read somewhere: the only part of the universe you can be sure of improving is yourself.
Baba is back from prayers and Ammi is calling me for lunch now; I can smell the aalo-bharey parathey.
No one's always there to listen. Thank you.
Love,
Me.
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