Psychedelic Slippers

25 is a funny age to be. Especially when it just turns the tables and you know nothing that you knew any more. Everything has changed. You tell yourself, “It has changed for Good”. And you define good in your head. Yet in your weakest of moments you transport yourself to the safety of two arms, that are now just in your head, but they tell you it will be okay. That your world is what it was. That you aren't a homeless wanderer, that there is a home, there is a pair of arms. They tell you and you believe them. And you sleep off in their comfort, only to wake up the next day and Break your heart all over. It’s the price of freedom, you tell yourself. This feeling of homeless, you have to live with it. And that searing pain you feel, you wonder if its regret or hope. But you hope it’s neither. Where is freedom you scream, and then you run. Yet nothing moves, and you wish you could run in time instead and days would fly forward, or fly back. That you could transport yourself to

"When you drop a glass or a plate to the ground it makes a loud crashing sound. When a window shatters a table leg breaks or when a picture falls off the wall it makes a noise. But as for your heart when that breaks it s completely silent. You would think as it s so important it would make the loudest noise in the whole world or even have some ... Read Moresort of ceremonious sound like the gong of a cymbal or the ringing of a bell. But it s silent and you almost wish there was a noise to distract you from the pain. If there is a noise it s internal. It screams and no one can hear it but you. It screams so loud your ears ring and your head aches. It trashes around in your chest like a great white shark caught in the sea it roars like a mother bear whose cub has been taken. That s what it looks like and that s what it sounds like a trashing panicking trapped great big beast roaring like a prisoner to its own emotions. But that s the thing about love no one is untouchable." 

I don't remember how old I was then, could have been 6-7 or 8. There were these bunch of play mates i had, who would always bully me, and I would rush crying home every evening. I would keep cribbing i don't have friends. ( I have always been obsessed with that word i presume) , so one fine evening, dad picks up a story book, puts it in my 3" palms and says, "Here, books are your best friends, they will never let you down". I don't know if it was my blind faith in everything that dad said, that i took the words so much to heart. But from then on till date, they've stayed by my side. Faithfully. Through thick and thin, time and again, i've found solace in books, from adventures in the magic faraway tree, to Santiago's (ref. Alchemist) desert odyssey. They have advised me, in the most exquisite ways. They have taught me to fight, love and empathize. They have always opened my heart for this one other perspective, that one can always accommodate.