She has just left the room and I have switched off lights and slipped in my bed. I am enough tired of the travelling but I know I wouldn't be able to catch my sleep. I reached the hostel in evening. I had much time to relax, had dinner and asked her to make tea.
We both have loquacious nature. Usually on such reunions we both try to get the opportunity to tell the story first. Since last three hours she has been telling me the details of what happened to her when I wasn't here. She must had realized my taciturnity earlier but she didn't highlighted it. Once she passed me my cup of tea she said, "missing home?". I spontaneously replied, "no, not". "Then whom?", she asked. "Not missing anybody but tired", I answered. She said, "OK". I can feel that she wasn't convinced. Our conversation ended. With this silence melancholy of one being surrounded everything around within seconds. She hardly had the last sip of her tea and said, "good night".
This is how I am, making simple things complicated, altering easy truths into hard lies, keeping my feelings confidential, fighting all time with myself to portray myself someone else. Later regretting that why i did so. Why do I keep my treasures unshared. What if I would tell her that I am missing not only someone but everyone.
The act of missing is like dis entwining the thread from a bobbin. One end of a thread tied with something if the bobbin drops from the hand one knows not how far it will go rolling on the floor. Sometimes when you try to stop it, it strikes away unwinding the thread more and more.
When I am writing this, I have travelled much in my mind from one person to another, from one memory to another, from one dream to the next searching that whom I am actually missing.
This search is painful, the memories of the past, the good ones and the worse are filled with many faces, the faces I want to get back and the faces I want to be with and the faces I want to forget.
Yes, I miss you, and I miss them too. But this is not the end of my search.
That is for whom I miss the most -myself.
Islamabad
We both have loquacious nature. Usually on such reunions we both try to get the opportunity to tell the story first. Since last three hours she has been telling me the details of what happened to her when I wasn't here. She must had realized my taciturnity earlier but she didn't highlighted it. Once she passed me my cup of tea she said, "missing home?". I spontaneously replied, "no, not". "Then whom?", she asked. "Not missing anybody but tired", I answered. She said, "OK". I can feel that she wasn't convinced. Our conversation ended. With this silence melancholy of one being surrounded everything around within seconds. She hardly had the last sip of her tea and said, "good night".
This is how I am, making simple things complicated, altering easy truths into hard lies, keeping my feelings confidential, fighting all time with myself to portray myself someone else. Later regretting that why i did so. Why do I keep my treasures unshared. What if I would tell her that I am missing not only someone but everyone.
The act of missing is like dis entwining the thread from a bobbin. One end of a thread tied with something if the bobbin drops from the hand one knows not how far it will go rolling on the floor. Sometimes when you try to stop it, it strikes away unwinding the thread more and more.
When I am writing this, I have travelled much in my mind from one person to another, from one memory to another, from one dream to the next searching that whom I am actually missing.
This search is painful, the memories of the past, the good ones and the worse are filled with many faces, the faces I want to get back and the faces I want to be with and the faces I want to forget.
Yes, I miss you, and I miss them too. But this is not the end of my search.
That is for whom I miss the most -myself.
Islamabad
