Oh lawd. No, really. This is a bad time.
| 08 07 15 |
I guess you could say this was a bad time. A really bad time. To see her.
My writing as of this moment is nowhere near in practice or in style. I’m seated in a rolly-polly IKEA desk chair in front of a home desk on an unusually rainy night that’s only just started to get disappointingly warmer. A Youtube Jazz mood is on speaker, dinner’s done and yet something’s just stopping me from doing what the other 450-or-so guys in my batch would be doing. The books are still in my bag — I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a good thing or not. And my mind is wandering.
I just made a quick thought. It was my last ever Phys Ed lesson today. Last Chemistry one too. I’d call myself lonely; more than half this country’s already way past that feeling. That latent stage of the tender life we only just begin to call Nostalgia. And the rest of my batch? Maybe more tied up in strings of math than ones of this kind. But like some childhood being introduced to a toddling kid for the first time… When it hits, you know it’s going to be with you for the rest of your life. It’s gonna grow with you, grow on you, and then grow you for the next few eons of your short existence. She is.
And even now, I’m still just getting started to know her.
It wasn’t long ago that I felt the same restful, floaty, almost mournful pang that makes everything around feel like a dream for just a second. The ‘last ______ ever’’s, the ‘never gonna be like _____ ever again’’s. When I was around tenderly-twelve, I got to know Nostalgia in her true alright form. And you don’t just forget the parts of a person that stay in the past. You don’t just forget that time you used to play with pony toys while watching X-Men, no matter how grown-up you get. Nothing gets missed once the date starts, and the coffee starts flowing. Memories compound, not replace, each other. And that starts to suck, the more of them you have.
There’s this sense of a kind of loss; the gentle slipping of a memoir through the sands of time and change. With every enveloping bead of the passing present, the weight sinks deeper and deeper… And you just know that there couldn’t be any other way.
She draws deeper, unhindered, artlessly -
The disappointments turn into our wildest tales, the joys turn into our sweetest wishes, and everything in between becomes an invariable part of this formless cloud we call the soul. Nothing’s wasted when it comes to a memory. It becomes a part of you.
The late nights, the constant feelings of escape, the hopes, dreams and searching. Of exploration. Of questions. Of Math sheets. Of teacher-talk. Of deodorant parties.
I wish there was all the time in the world to feel and run rest with her, but she grows all the same as I do. We just… don’t forget. It’s hard to. And soon enough, even the feelings of pine and reminiscence will echo away, and hopefully, turn into the subject of another unwarranted late-night coffee.
Here’s to knowing you, sweet sum of my all. Cheers.