Lost

There is this eerie feeling that swamps me now. This emptiness that surrounds everything i do. Step off the bus and I can almost see him standing in front of the gate like that first time; its dark and his face shines a little from the silver of the street light when he says "never underestimate me" and hands me the shopping bag filled with ice creams to the brim . He towers above me, and that is all i will remember of him later on, when I lay in bed and my heart hammers in my chest and I try to convince myself that it's just a friendly gesture and nothing more.
But my heart races , as if it is fighting a battle against time.

Everyday, I turn my face and look away. Everyday, the sinking feeling greets me again. This time its him standing under the street light at the corner of my street, wrapped away in a shawl and sporting a slight unkept beard and I see flashes of myself in the window twirling around for him. Dancing for him.

You don't know what it is until you have it. You don't know the extent to which you will go for it. You don't realise the manner in which it will affect every little move you make. Or how it will lead the course of the remaining fragments of your life. You don't know your own extremes, until you are left in the middle of it. And by then, its too late. The line has been crossed, the barrier has been breached and everything has been embedded in your memories permanently.

That is a fact that i managed to learn over due time. Memories, ruin you. When its all said and done, memories still make your stomach swirl. They still make you bow your head and close your eyes. Only now, when you open them, there is not a smile on your lips, but a thin film that glazes your stare that you try to blink back to keep anyone from noticing. When you open your eyes, you're not laying in bed and he's not grazing your stomach, you're on a camel coloured sofa and the book in your hands lays on the same page it did an hour back.

That's the beauty of love lost. The beauty of sad stories; they leave you yearning for more. Everything seems so incomplete, and there is a hope of a continuation....a better continuation.

A sad story means, the story teller is alive. The next thing you know, something fine will happen to her, something marvelous and then she will turn around and smile- these are the words i read this morning in a book i hope i manage to finish. "Little Bee"

No part of me believes them in this moment, as i watch the clock ticking away, marking the last half hour of this year. This great, turbulent year, that shall forever go down in history as the worst year of my currently lived life.

You will say that about every year from now on, my brother once said to me. I was sixteen and I had dubbed that the worst year of my life.

He was not right. 2009 was pure bliss. It was five hour phone conversations and sweet words that made the whole of me tingle. It was the graze of his hand on mine and secret kisses that i shall bury in the back of my mind forever. It was promises made that were going to be kept with out any doubt. I know now that that is the consequence of not knowing what fate has in store for you. That is the consequence of not believing how harsh the real world can truly be. That is the consequence of being an optimist.

So, i sit here now, writing down words that show only a mere sliver of the depth of the turmoil I am in. It's a weird form of redemption, i suppose. Almost a hope for a better next year, though fate has managed to tear me to pieces and not even a molecule of me believes in a better future now. Memories haunt me every where i go and every thing i do. But that's the price you pay for love. And despite all the heartache and pain, you know somewhere inside that if it comes to it, you will probably do it all over again. That is the worst part.