At times when I read my earlier posts, I feel strangely
detached. As if the current strange me is looking at the real me that earlier
was. I know it makes no sense at all, so let me explain (or try to).
For a millionth time- I lived alone for 6 years, in total
solitude. There was just no one I came back home to, or who heard me out.
Though it may sound depressing and I constantly cribbed about it, somewhere I’d
gotten used to it too. I had a way of living, behaving, doing things and coping
with situations. When I think about those days, I feel as if the person I am
right now is somebody I don’t connect to and I keep looking for those glimpses
of my past life. It is nowhere to say that I am not happy right now, just that
I reminisce about those days through rosy glasses. I seem to have forgotten the
pain and hurt of living alone, not talking for hours at times, crying myself to
sleep even. All I think of now is how I could not talk when I didn’t feel like,
taking power naps coming back home before going out with friends for dinner,
those late night conversations of love, life and miseries with best
friends. I miss dragging my bean bag in
the balcony with a nice cup of tea and a book and going off to sleep on it till
the evening chill woke me up. I miss S picking me up and giving me that
appreciative glance that embarrassed me and inflated my ego at the same time. I
miss my little secret life..
It’s like sitting on a tree and looking at my current life
as if it is all happening to someone else.. And then I meet S in the evening
and couldn’t care less..
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