Mistaken identities

There’s a knock on the door and they tell me it’s you,

I want to rush and fall into those arms that once held me,

The mind races and I think of all the things I have to say to you,

My heart is pounding as I struggle to remember the last time I heard your voice.

But then,

I reach the door and it’s you,

Only the arms that once held me aren’t welcome for me anymore,

You don’t want to hear the things I have to say,

And your voice, the voice I fell in love with, I can’t recognise anymore,

There you are at the door but it’s not the you I knew.

I choose you

The day you looked at me from across the room, I chose you

The day you lit my cigarette, I chose you

The day you dropped me home safe, I chose you

The day you held me while I puked, I chose you

The day you stood by me in the crowd, I chose you

The day you held my hand, I chose you

The day you kissed me like never before, I chose you

But then came the day you decided to let go,

And even though it’s been a while, I still choose you.

At the gate

Standing at the gate, I would turn around to look at you. Waiting for me, you would swing your bag around, turn the ignition of your bike on and ask, "Want to head somewhere?"

That's how it all started. A few drinks now, a dinner date someday or a movie sometime later. And somewhere between downing all the drinks and hogging all the cheeseballs, we found each other - in the need of friendship, in the hope of companionship and in the want for love.
 
And after just two weeks of whirling around the city and reeling in laughter, we wanted to stop, this time to find ourselves.

But here I am still waiting at the gate. There you are still looking at me.

As we go different ways I realise, maybe we were just two lonely souls trying to find home. And if not a home, I know I found shelter in you. 

To lean on?

Independent.
For the longest time now, I have associated myself with this word.

I have been living on my own for the past 2 and a half years and away from home for over 5 years now. So when I go back home for a visit now, it is almost always accompanied with my parents looking at me with a hint of tears in their eyes, the good ol' Indian parents thinking how much their daughter has changed. For the good, hopefully. Oh and also, my uncle showing me off to all of his friends with pride and saying, "Our journalist is back home".
So, for them I'm the most independent as it can get.

On the hindsight, not as much.

As I recall on a very blurred drunken night, on my way back from a friend's place, in the cab, while leaning on a guy friend, he had said, "In the words of Major Lazer, all we need is someone to lean on". Smart move yo, smart move. 

But how does that make me truly independent? If in my weakest times, I'm not comfortable with myself but need reassurance from another someone. 
I have never believed that I need validation from someone to feel good about the way I look, so why then should I need an approval stamp for the way I want to feel?

So, last night, while I was in my room, trying on the best clothes I had and dancing, coincidentally, to the tunes of Major Lazer's Lean On, neither did I feel the need to answer those texts that kept coming in nor did I feel the need to text anyone.
 
And that's when it dawned up on me, maybe Major Lazer could have changed the lyrics around a bit. Sometimes, all we need is someone to lean on, for all the other times, we can be perfectly fine on our own. 

About heartbreaks

You aren't my first heartbreak or my last. But that is what scares me.
That this searing pain in my heart will be back and I will be here wondering, how many more to go. 

Unrest

She hasn't stopped fidgeting with the pen. She's walking fast. She flings the paper on her desk and then stops. She could feel the eyes on her.

The unrest, the tension was inevitable. She had had enough. It was time to leave. But the cubicle in front of her and the glasses around were restricting her from looking beyond.

And once she got out of work, it was the indecisiveness that bothered her - Indecisiveness of the people around her, her own inability to decide where to go. The so-called home in the city that still wasn't home to her, didn't seem to welcome her anymore. The thought of having mundane conversations with people she was supposed to hangout with or stepping back to work, suffocated her. So, inevitably there she was, in the middle of nowhere, still struggling to breathe.

She needed time. Time to slow it all down. Time to figure out where she was headed. Time to find herself in the mess she had created. 

Scared

She  was scared that the world will know.
She was scared that she will always be emotionally vulnerable.
She was scared that she will be rejected.
She was scared that he won't love her.
She was scared about the fact that she was scared all the time.