May 15
Dear Diary,
He is coming. Finally. It has been 3 years, 7 months and 2 days. His email is to the point - "I will be in Atlanta between May 17th and 19th." There is nothing to read in-between. No "how are you" "long time no see" frills. No promises; not even may-bes. Just a one line of fact sitting on my laptop and staring at me. I miss the subtle details - the slightly slanting hand, the spelling mistake wrapped with a mesh, faint scent of ball point pen ink. My first reaction was to raise an eyebrow and say "So?". What would he do then? hmm.! He will probably just stand there narrowing his eyes trying to decode that message. Oh! I expect too much from the world.
May 16
My Dearest Diary,
I just had to buy it. It is red. His color. He sould have been FireMan - red from head to toe - cape, mask and the whole ensamble. Fire in his finger tips.
May 17
Diary,
He hasnt called yet. Obviously,"wait" is still his favorite word. I am an exclamation mark stuck at the bitter end of that word. What if that word was never invented? What if there was no convenient way of saying "go ahead and grow roots"?
May 18
Diary Dearest,
I am enveloped in sounds. Garage doors, lawn movers, basket balls, birds, heartbeats, some thing else. one of these sounds is going to materialize. any minute now.
May 19
Love is a play of hormones. A hallucination, an addiction. A temporary heaven.
അഭിപ്രായങ്ങളൊന്നുമില്ല:
ഒരു അഭിപ്രായം പോസ്റ്റ് ചെയ്യൂ