Why do I write

‘And…why should we write?’ You asked me in that endearing manner of yours in which you casually looked for the lighter you somehow misplaced earlier to light a smoke.

‘How else should I let my angst out?’ I answered in the quietest way possible, suppressing my frustration at being asked a question as silly as- Why should we breathe?

‘You, of all people, should know that!’ my heart wanted to scream.

You looked up at me as if you heard my enraged plea. At least that’s what I wanted to believe at that particular moment. I noticed how your face gradually softened, the cigarette was still hanging out of your lips and your hands were searching, emptying the contents out of the pockets- blue and white paper receipts, some loose change, and a hurriedly folded kerchief partially damp with your sweat.

‘God, you sweat like a pig.’ I wanted to say out loud but as usual, I chose to remain silent.
I swear, you looked handsome at that moment. So handsome that I was struggling to take my eyes off. I am afraid I must have looked like a fool to you then. But wait…Were you even looking at me? Honestly? Did you ever notice the yearning in my eyes?

If only you could hear my deepest thoughts.
I have been invisible all my life and I am not complaining about it. Invisibility offered me a different kind of freedom. The benefits of having the ability to blend into the background are far too many. But if I don’t write, how else will I speak of my feelings? My saddest farewells? The life altering moments and the memories that linger on? The good, the bad, that haunt me still? My fiercest and the most intimate contemplations? The things I still ruminate over when I am solitary?

I so badly wished to tell you all that and some more, but I didn’t want to be a bother. Perhaps someday, in the distant future, when you would genuinely take interest in listening and not merely pretending that you were paying attention, I may bare it all and let you see this despondent, hopeful, wondrous mind of mine.


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