I’m not sure when all of this became such a burden. Most people say that your heart knows where you need to go, where you need to be and with who you need to be. But what if your heart doesn’t talk to you anymore? I get into a local train and feel suffocated more than ever. When did my city become this menagerie of people shoving and pushing to get about? And why does it seem so overbearing to live, to love and even to cry. I don’t want to live in this city anymore. I’d rather leave without notice and be that insignificant girl who crawls into a mode of transport to an escape. I want a small place, nestled in some far corner of this country with no connectivity. I could grow vegetables in the kitchen garden, and carry logs of wood from one place to another. With the pittance of money that I’d get at the end of the day, I’d put some in an earthen pot, and use some to buy some flour for making rotis. And that way, I’d live season by season. Not wanting to know anyone. Not wanting to know about the new iPhone or what happened to Christina Yang in Grey’s Anatomy. I’d try to find my life in the logs of wood, and infrequently think of how we could save more trees.
I try to keep the faith, hope that the answers will come, and the sun will shine brighter. I’ve done everything I could have, mustered strength from every pore of my being, but I can’t do that anymore. People go home to be at peace. I seem to have been waiting patiently to find a home, to find friends who have been waiting, to find that someone still loves me somewhere, however none of that is there. My Piscean heart thinks that there is more to meet the eye, and possibly it’s all my fault. All of it. Maybe I should have never been here. Rather I should have never taken that turn, or let go of those people, or held that hand. And then, I think that perhaps this is all a part of some great plan, that the clouds will part, and the sun will shine. But then again, I don’t know for sure. All my relationships are strained. Even the one with God. I have prayed, requested, groveled, but none of it has worked. None of it works anymore. I have no friends left and nowhere to go. There is no love, no value, and nothing to be grateful about. Sometimes, I feel that the skies will crack and fall upon me. I will get buried under a mountain of wishes that we send upwards and those that lie in His mailroom. All those wishes that we sent for a better life. They’ll be my shroud, kill me softly and I will lie under small notes written by children who wanted to be astronauts, girls who wanted to be thin, men who wanted more money, wives who wanted more love, boys who wanted more bikes. In one letter, with cursive handwriting, will be a note that would be from me asking God to keep everyone I love happy. Since I would have passed away, I wouldn’t be able to see that maybe, I should have been more specific.