Reading tomorrow

Yesterday was an unproductive day, an overture to my my lock-stock-and-barrel move later this week. But I had some urge to flirt with myself thinking about what my adulthood really means for me - now.

I have been grappled with a mystery and have been feeling overwhelmed - time to time. Nothing new. But what awes me is how tender, soft and serene I feel about it this time. It is as if the more I grow farther from the childishness of adolescence, softer this feeling get. The more worldly I get the more innocent it becomes.

It’s my perennial love for whom I lived my life. It is alive again. And I have started to read the poem that has not been written.

I think I can see her, this time, not far away – in my future. We meet and we take a walk - in the evening mist for hours in that winding road, holding hands, anticipating the moment when she will rest her head on my shoulder. Gentle and pristine. And I hear her breathe – from as close as I can get to her. I then wish the world was really flat. So that as night falls, we walk and fall off the edge – and swim in the emptiness of the open dark sky. Nothing exists – just us and the universe, left behind.

Love is absolute. It is giving everything. There is nothing in between. It is my belonging to her - wholly and completely. A belonging that is so painfully sweet, that I rejoice to this dolor. And wait for that day to come.