What do you do when there is no one blame?

It's easy when its a zero-sum game
There's a winner and a loser
A prize waiting to be claimed.

One's gain is another's loss
As both stare up at the sky
And wait for the landing of the coin toss

It's simple when there is someone to shame
A victor and a victim
With or without a name

But what happens when there are no winners
There are no losers and the game just is
How does the mind comprehend such a deal
Where the game ends and there's no one to blame?

The final thread.

                           


When a rope needs to be broken, each thread, each tie has to be severed bit by bit. I am sure it takes no time to break them compared how long it must have taken to put them together, but the process must be slow if done manually

There is something fascinating about that final thread that holds the two pieces together.

How would it feel to be at that point of severing the final link that binds the two pieces together? I wonder if that's the easiest or hardest to break. Does one feel like getting past it in a hurry, having gone through the excruciating process of breaking breaking of the endless threads before that, which was anyway much harder (since there were multiple threads in action then). Or does one pause, and take a moment. Perhaps to reconsider what they're doing, or maybe just give the rope one final glance, as one whole, as one entity.

In the end, what's broken is broken. The rope pieces may now be apart, but can they ever be fully independent of each other? Irrespective of whether they realize it or not, whether each piece gets tied to something else or not, whether they become a part of something much grander - which I am sure they will - or lie as a useless by product of a well functioning rope.

My belief is that the thread that makes them what they are, still binds them - both pieces have the same thread. Each part (I hope) has an irreplaceable trace of the other. And that point of breakage, well that I believe would never leave its mark. It will always bring back memories of being one entity and also that of the breaking point, being held together by, and finally breaking off, that final thread.

Nostalgia is like salt on the wounds of a broken heart..

..forgive the melodrama. That is just me.

Goodbye.

To people. To this year. To a troubled state of mind.

For good. Goodbye.

The end

If tomorrow would be the last day,
I would write you a long letter
I'd come all the way to drop it,
and give you a long drawn hug,
I would let you know, with all my heart,
that you are, and will be my drug
I'll take a sniff off your hair, breathe it all in,
I would give my life, and all I have
For a repeat, a restart, to re-begin
But I give up now, and suspend all hope
I failed to be the one, the biggest failure of all
Now there is no right for remorse.

When darkness comes

Words by another person, in a finer language and in a more impressive voice, can be an antidote to an anxious mind. Makes you revel in the madness, while not feeling alone and psychotic about it.

It's okay that I wont ever be able to articulate or utter things that go on in my head so beautifully. As long as there are some people who do.

And a thank you to the two people who kindled the fondness for these people and their words in my mind, even though they opted (willingly or unwillingly) to leave.

Pack up, and leave.

Imagine moving into a new house - make it big/small/shabby/fancy to the extent that pleases your senses, we are imagining after all.

Now imagine the process of (what people commonly refer to as) "making it your home".

Imagine the anticipation of moving in. Imagine painstakingly, yet excitedly spending time to make it an extension of your personality, filling each nook and cranny with things that make you feel that the place is a part of you. While the colours, and the fabrics, and the furniture is what the world sees, it is your tastes and the unique combination of things pictured in your head and then, then picked and chosen carefully to make the space yours. Imagine the pride and joy of putting it all together, imagine being naive enough to want to show it off to the world. Imagine putting so much toil, to what could be snatched from you at the blink of an eye. Human beings are idiots.

Imagine feeling afraid that it might not be what you want it to be, that it might disappoint, it might not accurately reflect who you are. Imagine the feeling of giving up when it all starts seeming too pointless. It is just a house after all and those are just "things" you're filling it up with. But that doesn't make a house your home. It doesn't happen in a day, but it happens nonetheless, irrespective of intent; well, most of the times.

After a point of time, the nooks and crannies are filled not just with things you picked and chose, but a lingering smell of you and your co-inhabitants. The outlay is embedded is so deeply in your head that you don't need light to walk around and figure your way. Comfort comes, not from the colours of the wall or the softness of the mattress but something else, the sigh at the end of the day, accompanied by a "I'm home" ring in the head. Imagine feeling that acute sense of belonging to what was hitherto just a permutation of things and walls and colours. At some point, it transcends to become so much more.  At some point, it becomes what you look forward to at the end of each day, what you long for every vacation, it's the place against which you benchmark every route you take. Whether it's clean or messy, it still defines security, comfort, and peace for you. Something unique - perhaps time, perhaps familiarity, perhaps hope, perhaps that initial anticipation and love, perhaps people, perhaps memories, perhaps ownership, perhaps commitment, perhaps effort that it demands off you - translates all things tangible into something more than feelings or words.

There are of course days when a minor leak, shock or break might annoy you. When repeated pest infestations might make you feel that this place is just not worth it. But you know you seldom mean what you say. This is what you built with your own bare hands.  You love putting in the effort to keep this place, your abode, intact, and as completely yours as it ever was. There are such few things that are.

Imagine being in such a place and then, unexpectedly, out of the blue, being asked to pack up, and leave.

.. to be continued

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