Goodbye

444 and counting.
Retired Hurt.
Can't stop.

On another note, dead.

Caught up in an old world

I can see it happening now. I am sorry Ma-Baba. After everything, and all that I have lost or given up, this probably was the way to go. Portrayed by the stories and riddled with a stone heart I wish this was just a nightmare. But, then, for me, nightmares do come true, every one of them.

The penultimate step

Deleted. After 8 months and 10 days of the dump.

I thought I was sleeping. Having my usual shot of nightmares. I checked up with the clock. It told me last night I slept 2.5 hours. A long time to have a dream, a nightmare. Almost every morning as I wake up, I find myself covered in sweat and the shirt sleeves wet. But this wasn't in sleep. It was real. It was true.

Almost all my nightmares have come true now. I have some duties to perform. I have some responsibilities to tend to. I have nothing else, fortunately.

And when I have lost everything, when the worst has been realized, when the last nail has been plugged with a sound tending to a finality, when I am dead without being dead, I realize why I cross the road running everyday and wait an extra half second in the middle of the road looking at the approaching automobile, why I try to plug my feet on a treacherous slope and slip and fall and have a chronic hurting back and never tell anyone about it, why I need something to sleep every night, why I walk on the outside of the pavement with a palm stretched backward,  why I am always faking and lying to everybody around me, why I am so impervious to every thing else and nothing affects me other than one person, why I sometimes call out a name in sleep, why I am perfecting the art of shutting down.

I have had a Dumbledoresque vision of Love being the real solution, of sticking it out, never dumping the other one. It wasn't insecurity, my dear. It was about being the only one. I am sorry I was wrong. It works in the magic realm, not the earthly communion.

Ruined inside. Cold outside.

The final step is due someday. Hopefully I will never have to write about it.

I was married. I don't have any papers.
I am divorced. I don't have the 'proof' for that either.
I would have, someday, been the father of your child.
I will not have my Arya. Maybe you will have yours.

Ar parchi na.
Ar parchi na ami.
Oi din er opekkhae boshe,
Jedin ar parbo na.

Jebhabe drishyo anek gilchhe amay roj,

Sebhabei aaral pele bhangchhi ami, hochchhi je nikhonj ||

Jekhane daak pathale mrito-deher bhire

Sekhane tulchhi chhobi, tolchhi neshaay, aaschhi abar phire ||

Ei bujhi phaskalo haat, aar kalo raat kore samay gelo ayojone,

Pratyekdin bhoy pawa sab ichchhe gulo anek jhorer shabdo shone  ||

Aaj seshmesh nei, tor keu nei, keu nei...

I want you to want me.
The way I want you.
The way it should be.

But then, it never is the way it should be.

You know your futile desperate position when you run out of matchsticks and end up lighting smokes from the butt of the previous one in the late night dark while getting wet from the gentle rain sitting on the stairs and suddenly realizing it is morning and you don't know how time passed you by while you were weeping by the red sky.

Waif in a limbo.