What's in a date?

There is not a single day that passes where…

I will leave that sentence there. You have already completed it in your mind.

I believe you have not forgotten the day we met. That you can't the way I can't. 
That you know, we were destined to meet against all odds.

We just met once, the witty conversations, the raillery, the candours, the verbal jousts. I always win those.

And everything that follows, I lose.

Do you remember that evening, that nervous sunset, the freedom, the way my fingers touched your cold hands, the way I wanted to warm it against my ears.
Oh the memories..

Each second more palatable than the last. Souls bursting with the flavors of the moment; of the present.
The right here, the right now.
The you, the Me.

The implausibility of us.

And here we are gathering the memories and sowing the seeds in the fallows for more.

Seasons and Moods

I dreamed….

I was standing facing a meadow, oddly dressed for the weather. It was the middle of the week, middle of a night. Dense fog was settling on the grass, the naked ghostly trees across the meadow daring the blistering cold. I was looking over the slope & swell of the hill where your house stands.

Now I lay on my bed, white sheets that call for the summer lazy afternoon. I am wearing the T-shirt you gave me, now faded and worn to its thread. My head is on the soft pillow and the afternoon summer breeze on my face. And I am thinking about our time together, the way I used to keep my head on your lap and you used to caress my hair.

I was standing in the rain, arms spread wide. Soaking my soul to the core. And you were there hugging me from behind. I remember the thirst in me to drink the water droplets from your eye lashes. 

Its morning now, you must be awake. You must be feeling that something is lost. Something you left behind somewhere. You will touch the other side of your bed and feel surprised with the warmth it has. Then only you will know that last night as you slept fitfully, I traveled the distance through time and season into the place where the sky meets the earth, to find you.

Read.............

Read… It is one of the private of the pleasure that you can experience. It asks you to wear only your vulnerabilities and to leave your armor at the door.

Books have their secrets. The secrets they can’t keep. Like all the secrets, the secret a book keeps, gives it the power. With each page turned you grow roots within the secret that you accepted with complicity.

Pasts reopen, words reveal all, and skeletons tumble out.

You had relationships before, but the one you have with books can best be described as “Complicated” at most. Sometimes the scars it leaves on your mind and soul shows, like the paper cuts that leave bad memory scars anything like a dagger can’t.

Books can tear open you, right through your guts. They can open you and spill stories.

There is no mercy.

The book and its secret will make you bow and surrender to it. After that your existence is irrelevant unless you are making the knowledge of the book to be your nucleus. And in this particular moment of your life you are in a false impression that you have chosen the book, but in reality the book has chosen whether to own you or to leave you. And once you close the book, your existence cease to exist, your identity evaporates.

Opening the book and starting to read again feels like a long lost lover pulling you and sucking on your neck till you are faint. The book behaves like a hungry canine, and you have to reciprocate the hunger. You starve for the next piece of the story. You bite into the soft part of the story and wait for the warm blood to flow into you.

And you know what happens when you don’t feed a hungry dog.

Reading is like making love, your throat becomes dry, your knees go weak, your cheeks start to burn and you can’t unknow the things that are now known.

You share secrets.

The half truths, the bodies under the bridge, war torn cities, the torture, the fetishes, the fear, the disease, the fallen angels, the shame and the unthinkable deeds.

Everything a book tells you is a form of a lie. The one who believes the written words and falls in love with it is a fool. You should not construct loyalty towards a book; you are not the only one.   You know the written words can be read over and over again by anyone.

You can’t give what a book gives you, nobody can. The book reprints itself on your soul.

So what do I suggest you? I can’t tell you not to read when I myself enjoy the book as a lover who asks from you everything and leaves the moment the story gets over. 

But I can tell you I have seen pieces of people lying on the floors of the library when they came to return the book.

If you want to really hurt someone, give them a book that will leave them with a baby they can’t have.

So read…. And ask to be ruined.