Staying away

Sometimes you got to stay away. Up close, the problem seem so massive and indomitable. Shakes you up. Unhinges your faith. And you are consumed, wholly and savagely.

That distance makes a difference. A few paces back and it all seems changed. That's because you finally let some air in between. Sweet air in empty space which might hold the key to your problem. Then the colours suddenly change before your eyes, thoughts take up a new drift and the mind gets busy to tackle.

This is the trust that we can put into that distance. And I hope, this time too it works like a charm.  

Wrong or right, Let's have a fight!

Points can be pointless,
Just like arguments can be argumentative.
In the disturbing din, so much is missed, unseen, unnoticed.
Significant as it may be.
The mind shuts down.
The single purpose of life boils down to proving that you're right, as always.
Unseen, like crumpled sheets of rough paper love is swept away.
But then you're right and I'm wrong.
Or is it the other way around? 

Khoon Chala

"Kuch kar guzarne ko, khoon chala, khoon chala.........
Sawaalon ki ungli, jawaabo ki mutthi, sang leke khoon chala....."


There are days when you want to climb up graciously on your desk, clench your fists, embrace a meanness new to you and yell at the ugly creatures around you, telling them to "***k off!" For all the trauma, for all the distress, for all the injustices done to you, you want to avenge yourself, or whatever is left of it. You want to be angry because it emboldens you; you want to let it control you for once, in contrast to all the times you had to swallow that hot liquid down your throat and sit silent and sullen. 

There so much you want to do on a day like this. Throw things at them, shoot them in the head, slap them, abuse them. And finally feel lighter after having indulged in some childish vengeance. 

Still waiting to see what freedom feels like. Freedom from those ugly faces, rotten inside. Freedom from all that is unpleasant, decaying, nasty, malicious and dishonest. To walk away proudly knowing that you never became one of them. And never would.

Patience is running dry. And auto pilot seems to be having some technical issues from overloading. A straight, stony face is painful after a while, not to mention disturbing especially when you look into the mirror and find someone so metamorphosed. What have they done to you?? Why??

But not for long. Relief shall arrive soon. And then you will fly, mocking those who hurt you and tried hard to convince themselves that you're no good. Then you shall walk out never to look back at that ugliness again.

Sometimes, there is no turning the other cheek.     

The insidious enemy

She struck again last night. 
Her horrible face flashed in the lightning and disappeared in spurts.
What did she want? What was she after this time?
The same, the same.
Her motives never change, she never evolves.
Pain, misery, loss, dejection - all for her sister,
Her bright, happy sister whose laughter can lighten up a cloudy day.
We thought she was dead, never to destroy again.
But she crept up and uncorked a bottle of sweet smelling poison.
He lay unsuspecting, smiling with loving thoughts and words,
Eyes filled with her pretty face, head resounding with her songs.
Until she stuck the dagger into his side, slowly.
An evil relish, some dark laughter.
While the good sister screamed to be let out to rescue him.
But once again, she stepped out too late,
To catch the pieces in her hand. 

But you know what, bitch??!
She's gonna be ready for you next time. 
No more goody girl, no more helpless pleading.
Next time, you're dead.
Because for him, she will pick up the sword.

The writer I was

Reviewing and updating web content that I'd written two years ago, I am surprised. It reads nothing like what I'd write today and I ask myself, "Did I really write this?? Gosh! What was I thinking?"And then it begins to dawn on me, how writers change, as people, how their circumstances change, their muses, their beliefs, their streams of thought - it all changes. And with that changes what we write. It reflects it perfectly. That latest preference for short sentences, the extra heed to tenses, sometimes the unfortunate lack of vocabulary.The signs are all in there. Just as the wrinkles on our faces depict age, maturity and wisdom (hopefully), our writing speaks volumes. We can either evolve as writers or stay where we always were. I'd like to take my chances and discover new quirks in myself. And in what I write...

This thing called inertia

It's here. Been sitting heavy, chewing steady, all this while.
Bored, beady eyes and a slouch that the best doctor can't fix.
A deep yawn, slow thoughtless words.
The head throbs while introspection lies in the coffin.

Finally it gets to its feet. Aaah! Refreshing action!
Only to slump back into the creaking chair.
Breathes like lead, snores like a traffic jam.
This thing called inertia will be the end of me.

The Clutter-rers

Every morning I walk into office with focus. Focus on what needs to be done, what's on priority, what's not. My mind draws out a neat task list even before I pour it out in my notebook so I don't forget anything.

And then it happens!

He calls me to his desk, engages me into an unnecessarily long conversation, punctuated with multiple digressions from the actual topic, laughs, cracks jokes. All this while I restlessly (and quite visibly!) writhe and throw frantic glances at my desk and the humoungous job list sitting fat and heavy on it. Often, I have to escape, making hurried reassurances that what he asks for will surely be done. And then I sink into the security of my chair, close my eyes to erase 80% of what we'd discussed and meditate on what 'really' needs to be done.

My phone rings a thousand times, mostly calls for my colleague (thankfully!), but it does break into my concentration. Many a random, idle person ambles in for a small kitty party with the boss, which (I am very grateful to them), they soon take outside. Those few precious moments of his absence....aaaaah! The amount of work I cram into them is incredible. They also amble in for a word with me, to take their minds off work, and since I'm the universal entertainer, I have no choice but to indulge in some informal banter, while my eyes stay on the screen. Rude yes, but I'm sorry; when there's work to be done, there's work to be done. It's true that I do the same sometimes, in order to rest my sore eyes and finger tips, and to occupy my mind elsewhere to make room for fresh ideas. But when a person fidgets in his/her seat at my sight and talks to me with all eyes on the screen, I get the message and walk away.

 

God please tell these people that the amount of time we spend in meetings, we could be at our desks or out in the field actually making something big happen! Meetings bore me. Particularly, when they're needlessly lengthy, most people are talking crap and inside we all know that nothing's going to change; we're just going to end up doing exactly what we have been doing. So I boycott meetings, whenever I feel like. I'd rather be conquering my target deadlines and have concrete evidence of what I do in the organisation than sitting around talking in the air.

Phone calls, random individuals, boss kitty parties, responses (through email) from 'over enthu' persons who develop cataract when they're supposed to be reading my emails carefully and replying with precision and in context. Did somebody tell you that you are an utter pest???

So before approaching me the next time, as I sit frowning at a design dilemma on the screen, my brain working quick and deft, blocking everything else out - go clutter somebody else's head. 

The Bad Girlfriend

You won't even know when she takes over,
Kicking the sweet, unassuming girl out of the room.
She'll march around, restless, unhappy, angry...always,
Pouncing on petty objects,
Bouncing off bitter words,
Frowning,
Angry....always.

And while the sweet girl knocks frantically on the door, begging to be let in,
To save love, to restore peace, to secure the last shreds of happiness,
The bad one laughs in petulance,
Eyes gleaming with childish arrogance,
Till she destroys it all.

Struts out with her crimson cape flying behind her,
The sweet girl rushes in alarm on the scene,
And as she kneels before the ashes,
Tears abundant and painful,
A deep remorse sets in, which she carries to her grave....  

Mending and pasting the shreds to make it stand again,
Tears gluing them together,
She makes it stand, searching hopefully for signs of life,
But it remains silent, gloomy and lifeless,
Never to breathe the same love that helped it stand before.

Pencils in my hair

"Somewhere over the rainbow,
Where bluebirds fly,
And the dreams that you dreamed of,
Dreams really do come true ooh ooooh......" gently pours into my ears, painting pictures in the mind, happy pictures for a heavy heart. It comes to an end, everything. Especially when you begin to savour it. Litchi vanilla ice cream sticks or kiwi ice candies. Crazy auto rides or whisky. Everything.

Pencils hold my hair together. For other people, they write.  

Haunted House - A Short Comedy Film

The Child

The child hopped, skipped and jumped over the broken glass.
She seemed to enjoy the game,
Her keen eyes glistening at the multi-coloured, shiny pieces,
Hair flying like wild horses, mouth still dirty from the last chocolate she licked.
She was unsupervised, no mom, no dad, no siblings,
No bad boys who often pulled her hair and pushed her around.
She hopped freely over the sharp edges,
Hopscotch with invisible chalk,
Her entire life focused on this game she played with herself.
Time forgotten, fear never known,
She played.
Her pearl feet landing like little fairies,
On the shattered glass.
And as her tresses jumped up and down with her,
She watched herself in litte bits on the floor,
Painted in green, pink, yellow and blue.
It was fun,
This game,
On broken, shattered glass.

Failure

I meet it often. Sometimes, when I'm going for the fifth round of the maidan or when I push myself down while doing a full leg split. I meet it often in class, where no matter how much I try, I mess up my movements and hence my focus. It's there when I attempt a second pirouette, sometimes even the first. I meet it on the staircase, on the weighing scale, at the 'medium' section in a store, at school when see others flying around, so light and agile. So perfect.

I even meet it at work; my list of deadlines noted meticulously in my notebook speak loudly of it. I feel it's presence in relationships, those that were and could be. It's always there, stalking me, passing me by in the street in the rain or cruel heat.

But stepping back and looking through different glasses, one thing stands out in all my fated rendezvous with it. At least I tried.

Driving me up the hill

I have been known to make generalised statements about men, much to their consternation and fury. However, no matter how hard they try to prove me wrong and act out a different character, when the guards are down, men act like men. SO! At the risk of losing my male readers at this very point, sorry guys, here's another one.
I can't say about other parts of India, but the rural to semi-urban strata of Himachali men (men born and brought up in Himachal Pradesh) are downright xenophobic! And this especially towards 'foreign' women. For them, these fair-skinned chicks (mind you, I'm talking only about the west here) are meant only for porn, music videos and bed.
So if an English lady walks into the state, gets upset about the heaps of garbage piling up and decides to do something about it while the government and locals prefer to lay back and snore, they can't stand it. Anyway, women are best kept at home under wraps where they can't be much trouble, soon to be married off to a stranger. But this here is a 'foreign' lady to top it all! Ouch! Those smarting egos!
Hearing their derrogatory banter, I felt like slapping all of them in one go. They treated her like a dirty joke. What she had done and achieved held no regard nor earned her the respect due to her. All those obnoxious mules saw through their blinkers was the colour white and a British accent.
I've felt and observed this in my course of work in Himachal and it's beginning to bug me. I'm afraid that these men, their blatant jealousy and insecurity may just drive me 'up the hill', enough to give them the sounding of their lives - in Hindi, pure desi style!

Thorns

There are some people we bump into, who appear to be great in the beginning. They stick around, get to know you better (or they think), and gradually, when you're busy looking somewhere else, they pierce your unsuspecting flesh. And once they're inside, they fester and breed discontent, unrest, fury and attack your foundation of self-assurance. They work hard day and night to make you feel that you've been wired all wrong and the life you have led has been least enlightened. Suddenly again, they jump onto the scene, the self-proclaimed, indomitable saviours to 'help' change you, and lead you to the 'right' path. I sometimes wonder if they ever introspect to realise the flaws that lie within them. Their own mirror lies to them! Tells them that they're perfect, infallible, God-like. I seem to be passing through the valley of thorns lately. I hope it passes soon.

Something called ‘Purpose’

There is purpose. I feel it right this moment. Very powerful and overflowing the limited realms of my human existence. It is bigger than anything and can hold my entire life in its fist and shake it till all complacency is killed.

It will not let me rest, no matter how much I coax my thoughts to abandon me. It stalks me and though it threatens my comfort bubble, it also brings in its fold a thrill. The thrill of achievement. And honour, not from others, but from myself. The thrill of walking away from the trophy knowing that having earned it is enough.

There is no tangible reward following the purpose. But then, the best rewards are cannot be seen, held or spent.

This purpose will drive me nuts if I don’t grab it and leap off the cliff. Now.

Teacher

PB is gone. The first of my teachers to go.
Even though it's been some years since I met her last, there is still a void, a lump in the throat. A pool of regrets - why didn't I keep in touch more? why didn't I direct plays with her like she wanted me to? Why?
She was an outstanding person - free, honest, outspoken and compassionate. Waiting for Godot would not have been the same without her, the way she made us read out all the plays in class, with assigned characters. Life was a drama, and she was always the director.
But now that she's gone, the show must go on. She would've wanted it to.
And I hope, I never let the curtain fall on her stage.

He loves me...he loves me not

I'm sick of it.
When I love him, he doesn't love me.
When he loves me, I feel differently.
Can it never match? The person and the feeling?
This whole dog chasing his tail thing is absurd!
And when I want him, I want him bad.
Strangely it works both ways too.
When I don't want him, I mean business.

Love still eludes. Someone asked me today how I interpreted love. I said, "It doesn't come easy, and neither does it leave easy."
Love...ha!

The Manimahesh Experience

OF CREED
"Bhakti me hi shakti hai!" (there is great strength in worship)
I encountered these words many a times as I trudged up the high altitude mountains of Himachal Pradesh (HP) on Monday, September 13, 2010, with my two companions Anil and Bali, both volunteers with WWF. Several thoughts occurred to me in a flourish. They usually do when you're doing a monotonously strenous task like trekking up steep, rocky and unfriendly slopes.

My first was bewilderment. Believe me! The 14km trek to the religiously significant high altitude Manimahesh Lake, nestled at an altitude of 4,088 metres above sea level is no walk in the park. It is back-breakingly difficult! No amount of cycling, walking, doing stairs or dancing in the city can prepare you for this partially rocky, partially miry steep trekking route. On top of that, it rains non stop, making it colder. It's no fun to trek drenched and shivering. And still, people come. They are mysteriously drawn to this lake from Punjab, Jammu and HP, just to conquer its insane height and take a dip in the suicidal icy lake.

Old, tottering men and women who need assistance while crossing the street in their hometowns were climbing. Young, middle-aged, children, tall, thin, fat, barefooted - ALL were climbing. And for what??
FAITH.
But how could their faith be so incredibly complete that they can do what they do? "This is the same faith that compels them to kill as well," the thought ran through my brain and the cynic in me smirked. But only for a second. I watched old aunties overtake me (and that too barefooted sometimes or in delicate sandals). Mind you! Reebok does not get you a sexy butt or make your trek any simpler! I was put to shame at my relative incompetence, but I was left in awe at the same time. How did they do it??!!

I got my answer a little while later, about 4km from my destination camp, Gauri kund. Somebody tied lead blocks to my feet and lungs and I found myself dragging my body. I do not know how, but in that state of near collapse, my religion came to me. I'm not an atheist, but I'm not a religious person either. It's like I'm reminded of my religion under two circumstances - at Christmas and Easter, and when I'm in a soup. This instance of course, belonged to the second case. Not to forget the religious enthusiasm around me which was contagious.

I thought of Jesus Christ, the only character I like in Christianity. What I thought, felt and experienced next is too personal to recount but all I can say is that my belief that He was there with me, was comforting. It helped me ascend some of the toughest stretches on those uncordial mountains!

Faith is a strange thing. It makes a believer out of you. You just don't realise it until you are tested.

THE KACCHAR & I
It was my last resort. After 11km, I couldn't push myself to do any more. It was here that strength of mind, will power and faith failed, before a beyond exhausted body. So when I realised that I'd reached my limit, I shamefacedly asked my companions to get me a kacchar. These were being used by some of the other pilgrims and for the transportation of goods. As a virtue, I dislike riding on top of animals. I feel like I'm disrespecting them. But in that moment, it was either using my useless limbs to climb another 2km or spending the night in the cold dark mountains. Neither was an option.

I was worried. Not for myself but for the poor sould who would carry my weight on the tough landscape for 2.5km in the paling light around us. They brought a sweet looking white kacchar called 'Buggi'. Throughout the ascent, I feared for him. Luckily for him (and my conscience), I soon learnt the tricks to make it easier for him. Pay attention, you might be in the same situation someday.

So when climbing up a slope, keep your body weight forward. Similarly, while descending, pull back your weight. This helps any quadruped maintain its balance and lessens the strain on it. All through the journey, I ignored the gorgeous scenery around me. I barely glanced at the deep purple sky with the aesthetically carved half moon, and the sun setting amongst the distant valleys. My mind was fixed only on two things:
(i) Coordinating my body position according to Buggi's ascent and descent.
(ii) Staying on Buggi. His guide told me to imagine I was riding a bicycle and to balance myself accordingly.

There were times when Buggi preferred to walk on the relatively softer edges of the slope, leading me to tighten my hold, breathe faster and clutch on to my faith in the sure-footed animal I'd entrusted my life to. I kind of figured that he wasn't interested in rolling down the rocky slope and dying any more than I was.

We FINALLY reached, a deeply remorseful me, a very tired Buggi. I think I was more relieved getting off him than he was to let me off. The minute I touched ground, I sat down and took his head into my arms, fondling his face and ears, a silent apology. I felt so so sorry for making him go through that. I'd like to believe that he understood.

The two packets of biscuits in my bag that I'd saved for Buggi were received happily by him. I gave his guide an extra 50 bucks which delighted him. He took off with Buggi, promising to buy him chanas with the extra money.

I learnt something valuable, besides ensuring my fitness levels before embarking on a tough trek. Always trust your kacchar. He knows what he's doing.

LIFE IS A MOVIE
My train from Pathankot to Delhi was at 7:05 pm. After a late start that morning, attributed to the lack of proper public transport between Harsar (the starting point of the trek) to Bharmour (our base) and the last minute bus ride and some hitchiking thrown in, I was in a taxi racing towards Chamba. It was three hours from Bharmour to Chamba. From there, I was going to undertake a five-six hour bus journey to Pathankot, from where I'd catch my train. Taxis are rather expensive in the hills, so I couldn't do a taxi all the way.

I was tense. I could not afford to miss this train for it was my birthday the next day and nothing would be worse than to be stuck in Pathankot on it, alone. More than that, mum and all were busy making plans and I just couldn't disappoint them. I had to catch this train!

The driver was a decent chap called Anil. It seemed like everybody I met in HP was called Anil. He reassured me that he'd get me to the bus stop in time. He did. But I couldn't recognise the station as the one I got off at three days ago. He gave me his number (in case of emergencies) and drove off. I asked around frantically for an immediate bus to Pathankot. It was already a little more than 2pm and I had 5 hours more to go. I received the dismal information that buses to Pathankot from this station were infrequent. Merrily, someone told me to sit around and wait for the next bus at 4pm.

I scooped out my cellphone, called Anil right back to where he dropped me, breathed easy the minute I saw him, withdrew some extra cash and told him to take me all the way to Pathankot. There, we were set.

Errr.....not quite. Within half an hour, we got a severe puncture. It took 40 minutes and 4 guys to fix it, while I strolled around uneasily, feeling the tick tock of my watch throb in my veins. When we finally started off again, we realised that we had lost out on precious time. Nevertheless, Anil gave me hope. Hill people are either very optimistic or misleading. At the moment, I chose to believe the former.

We rollercoastered up and down the mountains, watching the sun bathed valleys zipping past. I usually enjoy natural beauty, but my restless mind had only one agenda. For more than two hours we travelled fast. And just when I thought we were close, it happened.

The front axel collapsed.

Right in front of a Wine and Beer shop in the middle of nowhere. When it happened and we crashed to a halt, the image of my train running past me flashed before my eyes. I was reminded of my last Jab We Met experience of December 2008 when I ran to catch my train to Bombay, which I would've easily missed had I not made a dogged dash for it.

We were 35km away from Pathankot, it was 6:15 or so. My train was at 7:05. The locals from the wine and beer shop came out in hordes to examine the incident and my driver looked hopelessly lost, for the first time. That's when panic kicked in. I couldn't believe this was happening to me!!! I mean, I did a crazy trek which had left my legs of little use (even now I was crawling like a tortoise), I hadn't had decent accommodation or a bathroom in days, my birthday was tomorrow, we already made a mistake with the Chamba bus station and survived a car puncture, and now this!!!!!

I looked around at the locals with pleading eyes, asking for solutions. A few drew out cellphones after consulting my driver and made calls to local taxi drivers. But these were either too expensive or would take more than 30 minutes to arrive. There was no question of banking on them. While hurriedly glancing all around for some solution to emerge from the wilderness around me, my eyes fell on a couple of motorbikes parked before the liquor shop. I immediately requested that the journey be completed on a two-wheeler since it was already available and just needed a driver. The men just laughed at the suggestion. They probably thought I was some chick from the city with a dozen pink suitcases in the car.

I marched to the car, my mind made up. Heaved on my heavy knapsack, grabbed my trekking stick (something I couldn't part with even after the trek was over) and my 2kgs of Himachali apples I'd bought for dad. I was ready for battle. When the men saw me approach like this, they suddenly changed their minds. Now it seemed possible for me to be dropped on a two-wheeler. They called out to someone I couldn't see, while I went and stood near a motorbike, waiting for the driver to come and swiftly deliver me to the station.

There arrived on a scene a lanky boy of about 17, pushing forward a dilapidated scooter from my grandfather's era. The smiling men from the liquor shop told me that these were to be my wheels and chauffeur. After a brief moment of reluctance, I threw practicality to the winds and jumped on to the scooter with some difficulty, owing to the burden on my shoulders. In one hand I clutched my stick, held in a way that it would not injure fellow motorists on the road, and in the other I held on to those dear apples, as if they were my way back to the Garden of Eden. The lanky boy got on calmy, put on his worn out helmet. I waved a smiling goodbye to Anil who looked so guilty, and a friendly wave to the men of the liquor shop who I'd never meet again, but who had so endearingly found a solution for a distressed stranger.

As we flew round curves and thundered through straight paths, I grew more impressed with Grandpa's scooter. Though I still feared something just might go wrong, as the pattern had been all day. I also imagined in some kinky part of my mind that we were being videotaped! That we were actually in a movie, playing a scene. It all seemed to fit. The dramatic disasters. The curious coincidence of our taxi breaking down right before a Wine and Beer Shop. Had it been in the wilderness, it would've been a dead end. The strange, yet helpful people from the liquor shop, for whom this probably added some excitement to their routine. The ancient scooter, the lanky driver who I feared might fly off with the wind that hit us. And me, the most dramatic of all. Hair tied up hastily in a bun, red jersey, blue jeans, agitated demeanour, gigantic bag on her back, balancing it somehow on the back of the scooter, a sturdy stick on one side and some apples on the other. Wow! Now that's a sight you don't get to see everyday. You'd probably catch that in some freaky movie, giving me enough reason to believe for a moment that I was in a movie!

While expecting the scooter to break down any minute, I discoverd that my driver (/rider, whatever) was a little ill at ease. I was right about his helmet being worn out because the clasp that is fastened under to chin to keep it on the head was broken. So everytime, we reached Superman speed, he'd have to repeatedly press the helment down to his head to keep it from flying off. I could NOT have anything distract him from his single purpose in life - to drop me to Pathankot station. So my stick was transferred to my left hand which also held my apples. My free right went on top of his head and there it stayed for most of the journey. Many a passerby must have got his/her share of entertainment that day.

Eyes watering, right hand numb, phone buzzing in my pocket and no courage to look at the watch, we made it. We touched the station at 6:40pm. I don't know in how much time we covered 35km! I stumbled off the scooter, happy, breathing at a sane rate and laughing. If it had not been for my manners and the prospect of scaring a local Himachali boy out of his wits, I restrained from throwing my arms around his neck in an affectionate strangle. I thanked him five times before ambling towards my platform, enjoying the sudden luxury of extra time, knowing that I would be home for sure the next day to enjoy a happy happy birthday.

I wondered if the camera was still on me, recording my movements now that the excitement was over. I don't know about you all, but if this movie ever came out in the cinema halls, I'd sure go and watch it!

Commonwealth Gone.....

I think it was the cynicism and scepticism that the media bred like mosquito eggs and released into the main stream. And we took it in.

Sure there were problems with the Games. The corruption, the conspiracies, the half finished flyovers, the pot holes in new ones, the apparent incompetence, yellow lanes and traffic woes - everything seemed wrong about the Games. The media left everyone asking, "Why the hell did our people even agree to do them here??" And we were happy in our little world of indignance and criticism.

But they did it man! They pulled it off just fine. No one died. No bombs. No terrorist attacks. Only games, and of course a lot of sex on the sly, but yeah, no one died.

And as I stood on my terrace, watching the fireworks rise above the stadium which was so so close and yet so far from me, something inside me woke up. I woke up to the realisation that an event of this magnitude just took place in Delhi, and may never happen again in my lifetime, and I wasn't a part of it. I didn't bother to be a part of it. Yeah so I scrambled for tickets for the closing ceremony and wanted to watch at least one match, but I didn't put in any effort. I let the media mislead me.

And in that moment when fireworks rose in the helicoptered sky, I wished so much to be inside that stadium, to have been part of something so important in my city. Then Aashruti said, "You know, we've become so self-involved in our lives and work, that we let this pass."

That's when I woke up.

The Hunt

The word 'hunt' exudes this sense of anxious search, a desperate search.
But why?
A fear that the world will move past while you still sit alone at parties, smiling, trying to enjoy the music and buzzing banter?
The wistful walk through the park with your fingers longing for another's?
Clenched tight in the silent re-affirmation of love and security.
Someone to sink into and lose yourself for a while.
Someone to share moments that become special when it is that person you're sharing with.
Someone you can sit next to for hours without feeling the need to talk. No empty silences.
A hunt for that someone who probably comes only once.
A tough hunt, a near impossible hunt.
But as Murphy likes it, you never end up getting what you're on a hunt for.
The minute you stop at the side to catch your breath, worn out and dejected,
Someone lands right into your lap.