I once wrote something on a piece of paper. I sent it across to you and you returned it, un-creased and unread. I did not give up. I did not want to give up. I roamed around with the intention of handing over that letter to you. You regarded it as a blank note, but I was prepared to write so many of such letters.
I was obsessed with it. I carried it along where ever I went. It was like blind person having a map to the destination. That piece was a huge burden, yet, I found means to talk and feel about it. I had hardly participated in the you-give-yours and I-will-give-mine kind of exchange carnivals and had no clue about any of them either. All the same when I found myself on one such occasion I perfectly knew what I wanted and understood what I was doing, and expressed all in that paper. Yet the understanding was limited to me, as you had no idea as to the happenings. You were busy to notice the transformations; and if u did notice, even accidentally, you dismissed them with an airy wave of your hand and a sneer. I remained in your path and somehow you seemed to miss me on your ways.
I joked, I cried and I even dreamt about the situation. Nevertheless, I never gave up on the letter, believing you would one day reach out your hands to take the it from me. I thought you just needed some time to see the truth behind my decisions. I figured you would feel the warmth of my yearnings and relent. I imagined that some day you would find the words in my songs and sing along. I conceived that you are waiting for the right color to come along, to paint my canvas. I convinced myself that sometimes even your silence fitted well in my poems. I reveled in the petrichor and chill rains that your glance in my wake brought along. I broke down when you did scold me, but I built myself up again seeing you smile.
Life was like the unformed dream, where you would desperately want something to happen but the thoughts take their own form. The letter was an integral part of all things; it had seen it all. But, the determination gradually started waning. How much ever I found it difficult and disquieting to let go, something inside of me stared to inch away from the hold of that letter. Should I have pleaded more? Should I have read it out aloud for you and the world to hear? Should I have presented it in a more glamorous form? I don’t know what I did wrong? Or did I do it overtly correct? I had formed up questions for you. ‘When will the flowers bloom in your garden? Is your canvas painted in colors? Do you recognize the earthly smell of tears? Can you tell apart the happy and sad tunes of the birds? Has the sea waves ever caressed your feet and exchanged secrets?’ Or did I delve too much into the realms of imagination and mere fantasy to have expected all this from you? Did I keep facing the wrong directions when I ought to have looked elsewhere? Is it my fault that I did all those?
Time rolled over and we got washed away to different shores. The main became the void. The words must have faded off. And now, when you want to have a look at what was ever written, I seem to have lost that piece of paper. Must be around the time, I completely lost you. Could it be that, the paper understood it is irrelevant when the intent is itself lost, and got lost itself?
In the background : Lyrics Tune