I think of the days I betrayed my understanding of as to what you mean to me, or how much you mean to me. I get it, sometimes people are like a far distant moon, a dead beam of light on an approach road to heaven. Sigh, what an overkill. I was to bring you the comics I had borrowed from you last winter, place it quietly on your window sill, and not wake you from your afternoon nap. It was a simple task. To not wake you up.
As I came over one fine afternoon, juggling the comic books, the bowl of unniappams your amma gave me, and the freshly plucked unripe green mangoes, I stopped for a second to take a look at your head burrowed into the old pillow, and the faded almost torn cotton bedsheet. The bedsheet had weird stains, printed over it’s already gaudy pattern. You looked like a baby, sleeping that way, curled up, warming your soul. I remembered the times when we used to fight for the bedsheet, I’d always throw mine on the floor and take yours in sleep. Cold, and shivering, you’d end up curling close to me. I think we were roughly around 4 and 7 years old.
Things were a little different now, wasn’t it? You stopped acknowledging my presence, or for an extreme thought, my existence. I wonder why you still had our picture framed on the side white wall, or my mouth organ boxed inside your table’s left most drawer. If people meant something to you, you would visit them at least?
I could only summon so much of your love from within this side of the world. Although well aware that I, am just a fading hallucination of your past, mortally separated from your world, just slipping out of slumber during noons, I pay you a visit every time I break free. We don’t need those pills, the mirror on the wall could still be our photograph, I can still sing for you, lullabies from the lost world of paranoia. I just need to be absorbed.
Some day soon.
