I know this is only way to release the uneasy sorrow I am carrying with me. I am not used to keep something locked for so much time, except my attempt to identify you with name. It is weird silence, it is silence after long awaited death of bed-ridden person who is better if dies. But even such desired worst result when actually happens shocks in most extraordinary manner. This is numbness of such shock that my words are just lingering around.
I look back to all distance we walked. There are places that any relation can reach. But what make sense of loss severely painful are some spots where we talked, a child in me to a ever present child to you. I was like boy who has just done something wrong in his home and has run away to his dearest friend, to tell her whatever he did without missing any detail and then be free with burden of guilt. Do you remember these spots my friend? You are, I know, because forgetting is habit for those who need to produce constant lies. I am just seeing all these spots, bright in calm, soothing light of their own and making your silence bearable by travel through them.
I never found a child in me so easily conversable. And I realize everybody has such child in them and this child keeps them weird enough so that they remain identifiable in pools of regularity. Child is fearless, to touch something and then on keeping it or leaving. The way I see you loosing yourself in simple acts, trivial for somebody like me burdened with me false sense of theories about world, I wondered whether I have such doors in my self to converse with my innocent self. Now, with your departure, a boy is wondering through all these doors, searching all places where he used to find his friend waiting for him and going lost, as there is no sign of anybody ever present. There can’t be even a cry, because sense of absence has struck him like a hammer, a quick load of immense pains turning him unconscious to any reality around him and he is just watching a newly found world with dry and empty eyes.
It is growing up. When one grows one comes to know that we have limited ability to assimilate people we like to be in us. We cannot assimilate them in all the forms they have. We have to choose. We have to choose whether we take them with us or we carry weightless but heavy memories. I hate such choice dear, and I hate is forced on me by time. I feel toyed, made useless to convey anything to anybody and not able to remain child. I am making escape by saying time did it? Such illusive masks are wore by grown ups, of ambiguous questions, of inconclusive philosophies. Innocence goes without any mask, and that is why it is stern enough not to look back on decisions once taken.
Will you read this? Let time have this answer. But I know what you will say after reading this, “ grown ups are like that..”.