The Untitled Section of Life

 

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So I don’t think that the trouble indeed was with me.
Because when I found people scribbling ‘something’ with colorful sketch pens and pens on each other’s white shirts and t-shirts,
I wondered, how many of those colors were actually filled in their life by those very same hands.
I wondered how many times they had laughed together over a cup of coffee while discussing the man in white beard opposite them.
I wondered how important it was for them, to have something of each other to carry with them for all their lives,
Words and phrases
Colors of people they never talked to.
I wondered.

Maybe that is the fervor of the last few days of college life,
That you want to contain a few years in something,
Something that doesn’t even belong to you.
Yes, that thin greeting card and yes, that white shirt.
That you constantly try to collect little pieces, intact or broken,
And put them in a glass jar,
Instead of your heart.
Because during all these years we thought ourselves as invincible
But the truth was that forever comes with terms and conditions.

And the trouble indeed wasn’t with me,
Because even in the last few days I didn’t want anything of anyone.
I didn’t want their words, or their colors
As I was already too contented with all that they have given me in those years.
It was too much for me.
Enough to make me remind of them;
Them few special people,
Whose smiles will always bring tears to my eyes.

I wasn’t that troubled human.
I just didn’t want too many scribbles,
Because I didn’t want them as merely rough notes,
I wanted them as poems and prose,
Written with those hands not on my white T-shirt but my tabula rasa
For I could never settle for anything less than that.

So when I turned around,
I saw them smiling up in the cloud,
Asking me to befriend people,
Asking me to move ahead and never look back.
Because after all these years I didn’t need a scribble day for them to tell me things,
The lessons they taught were just enough.

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