Here, breathing in the fragrance of a dying summer, I realise, it takes a love affair to make you feel lonely. The pleasures of Solitude seem a hollow promise I was lied about. Oh the laughable irony of it all! I find myself face to face with Loneliness and I refuse to make eye contact. I fight, with all I have. My books, these words, poems trailing on notebook margins, complaints gurgling up my throat.
“Zindagi mein jab tumhare ghum nahin the
Itne tanha the ki hum bhi hum nahin the.”
There is a queer romanticism in writhing in loneliness. I admire and abhor it with such passion, confusion blurs my emotions into a wobble sometimes. Literature, my sole comfort has also turned its back on me – no one loves a mopey person. As days leaf through me, I oscillate from one alarming notion to another. They get uncomfortable when I talk loopy, for I am not meant to. I am the sane, balanced one. I make the right choices and meet the deadlines. I wake up when my alarm rings and laugh at the right places. I am not supposed to crumble. I am not expected to write that note.
“I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel,
I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real.”
The sun was a benevolent orb today. I went alone, and felt liberated in my own company. Winchester is a beautiful little town, and I walked into its famous Cathedral. A sermon was underway and the choir sang, their angelic voices echoing off the ancient walls. An ephemeral calm descended over me and prayers found their way to my lips. I walked past Jane Austen's tomb, her bone-powder and dust seemed more alive to me than many living people I knew. I shadowed the path Keats used to walk centuries ago. He wrote his Ode to Autumn here you know. My blue dress fluttered, a little too gaily for my taste. I walked briskly, as always. It was a rare day: calm and leisurely.
“When your weight adds to mine
We’re weightless for a while”
I might be sleeping well, but I dream no longer.