Diary

I miss you a lot. Nights are the hardest. You're here and its so hard to let go. I cant get over this feeling of loneliness that wraps around me like a cold blanket, sending shivers down my body, all night long. I cant get over how I'm losing you, with every passing day, because clearly all is not lost till this heart stops and starts.

You invade my mind, like only you do, and you are the emptiness in my chest, just like you were the warm fuzzy feeling inside. And now tears flow incessantly and you cannot make them stop, even though you could tickle me from far far away which no one else ever could.

I'm in love, and it is hurting so much, I wish I could stop feeling, if only for a minute. I can't sleep because I'm afraid, not about what I'll dream of, for the content of that is pre-decided, but because eventually I'll be waking up and realising it were a dream.

I try, and try, to go back and do things right, but I end up just the same, at the very same place. I am sweating. I've never been so scared in my life. Never this much. 

Coming Home.

Come Home, He said to me.

Well, I can't. I had to keep on walking, and then I found myself somewhere, and they all told me this is your home and I said, so be it. Its not the one I had in mind, but it is as real as real can be.

Of course, that home was warmer, prettier and livelier. It was full of my laughter tinkling through the hallway, and the smell of tea brewing in the kitchen. Light passed through the tall glasses and made shadows over my paintings. Fairy lights burnt in green bottles and the sky-blue curtains fluttered in the breeze. And he sat in the centre of my universe, writing something lyrical.

But I could never set a foot in that house. It took so long to find that place, only to find I would not be entering it. After all, I was always knocking at the wrong time. Either too early, or way too late.
Sometimes I would go there in the dark of the night, drunken, banging at the door, and sometimes I would find myself loitering there, unconsciously, during the afternoons, and then again, sometimes I was there, dead sober and serious, in my dreams.

I always had to go back, At times clad with embarrassment due to my incessant knocking, at times afraid, disturbed, as to will I be ever let in, and mostly dejected and miserable because I was not on time, and the sun had gone down. I used to run towards it, panting, and I also used to drag myself there hopelessly,but the door was always closed. Sometimes I swear I saw him by the window, watching me, and sometimes I just missed him as he bolted the door behind him.

And then I learnt to walk in the other direction, as far as my feet could take me, always looking back behind my shoulder, but still walking. I forbade myself to sleep lest I may dream, and I put my feet in chains whenever I did halt, so that my subconscious would not get the better of me. And all this time I did not realise that the gates had been open only as soon as I left.

And yet, that Home will always be mine, only mine, because when you open it there won't be all those things I told you about, nor me and my laughter, nor him and his ease. It will be some other place you'll find there. Only I can return to it and find it exactly how I describe it, and even if I could never really enter it, the possibility always remains.