I Have a Lot of Pages

"You have a lot of pages."
"What?"
"I said you have a lot of pages. In you."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You like to read books, right?"
"That's right."
"Yeah. I've been noticing you. You, too, are like a book having so many pages."
"Okay. Is there something written on the pages? Or are they empty?"
"No, there is a lot written on these pages. And the new pages just keep on adding up."
I looked at my friend with a look that told her I needed a bit more of elaboration about it.
"Don't worry," she said. "It's a compliment. Believe me, it is."
"Is it? Okay." I smiled and she flashed her nonchalant smile back at me without knowing how this one sentence of hers made me look into a dark pit to search for my belonging that got lost in it.
I have got a task at my hand now. I have to read this book, too. But how can I read it when it's not completed yet? How can I read this book when she says that the pages keep getting added in it?
How could she read it that easily?
I want to know what does the cover page say. I, too, need to read this book with 'a lot' of pages and never ending chapters. I wonder what would it be like to read a book with words swimming in the ocean, even without knowing how to swim. My words don't know how to swim, still they dare to venture on this oceanic journey.

I strolled away from her, alone, wondering how deep would I have to go in this dark pit, to find that belonging that got lost in it.

Her Budding Thoughts

Evening is setting in and it's getting darker with each passing moment. Her room, brightened by the light coming from the window, is slowly wearing a shroud of dark. The sound of life is swinging to her room from the outside world. Inside, it's just her, the sound of keyboard, the lingering smell of her perfume, and her thoughts.

Her thoughts..

Lord knows whether her thoughts are the problem or the solution. Her thoughts that fly her over the years and decades. Most of the times, while on her thoughts-driven-journey, she just cannot come back. She stays there where her thoughts take her to and so she looks like a statue to the people of where her physical existence is situated. Who decides where does one choose to stay?

Years have passed, and she is still in the search of her inquisitions that revolve around one ultimate question. Why is she made a human being? She says she could have been anything. She couldn't even have existed, for that matter. But why is she here? A constant pain, a perpetual disturbance, an ultimate disappointment.. that's what she has always been.

It's got dark outside. From the common room, a beam of light peaks in through the door left ajar, making an illuminated triangle stretching along the carpeted floor. She looks at the light and suddenly starts thinking about the chemistry of light and the physics of its existence. Why is she thinking that, anyway? She writes, erases, rewrites, erases, writes once again and then backspaces it one more time. What is it that she's trying to write anyway? 

When the heart gets filled with a plethora of things that need to get out, that's when it starts to sink. Because, the heart then shows that it lacks the strength to hold it all. To keep the heart afloat, a few things need to be let out. But then again, not everyone can hold and preserve the words you let out. Not everyone understands the expression you wear. This is the reason she keeps it in. She'll depart one day, with oceans of words stacked safely in her.

There's one thing she's quite sure she won't understand. Not because she cannot understand. No, she certainly can! But her fellow human beings won't let her go with her theory of life. The truth of life is that it's filled with lies and distrust. Not everyone thinks alike. She used to like the versatility of humans. Ironically, she has confronted the versatility of humans in the context of everything against her. It's her, it has always been her, it will always be her!

The sound of life coming from the outside world has stopped abruptly. Someone has turned off the T.V. Her phone starts ringing that very instant. She looks at the screen. It's her friend, a very old and very sweet friend who never gets enough of talking. She picks it up for the sake of her friend and compels herself to talk. "Why do you sound so low, tell me!", screams her friend. But not everyone understands, so she decides to dump the blame on her routine and assignments. The sound of doorbell is heard. She shifts in her duvet. A sea of chirping voices and giggles reaches her again from the outside world. There are visitors outside. Everyone is laughing on the outside, everyone is hiding their real stories. They all are living it wrong. Oddly, her friend decides to make the conversation short, today. She's grateful for that.

Let's continue watching her, while she continues the mentally tedious task; thinking.

Of Silence and the Moon

I like the time after dawn. When the sun dips in the earth and the moon appears distinctly on the vast, extravagant sky.  When the birds are gone to their hide-outs and there is no interruption of their flapping wings that could disturb the stillness of the view. I like to see the moon afloat in the sky like a big glowing sphere with the occasional appearance of the gray clouds, like the smoke, wafting over the moon, making it appear murky. I like that time because everything gets so silent, so serene at that time that it gives me time to reflect, think, comprehend about everything. I like the time of night when everyone goes off to the valley of dreams and I choose to stay awake. I like the time of night when everyone slips away from reality by shutting their eyes and I choose to go to all the places far from reality by keeping my eyes wide open. I like to stare at the blackness of the sky. I like to listen to the stillness of the silence. I like the silence complemented by the sound of a far off cricket creaking at night. I like the silence complemented by an occasional sound of a stray animal wandering alone, trying to find a place to hide itself. I like the sound of silence complemented by the sound of my own breathing. I like the sound of silence complemented by stillness, the darkness, the calmness. I can never give that much time to myself during the time when everyone is up. I like the time after dawn, when everyone dozes off, because that is the time when they let me be with my own self. That is the time when I can smile, cry, and laugh without anyone getting curious or judgemental about my demeanour. I like the time of night because night brings along the moon with it. I like the time of night because I believe that the moon and I could become very good friends. Both of us like the time of night. Both of us like to keep ourselves away from the rest of the world. Both of us speak a lot without saying anything. Both of us are wrapped in silence. I like the time after dawn because things that necessitates life are not the same for me as they are for most of the people in the world. At daytime, people speak and I listen. At night, I speak and things that are metaphysical to you, come down and listen to what I have to say. Because my talk is too boring and dry for the citizens of planet Earth, I speak not to humans but to the extraterrestrial souls. I like to speak to them because it’s not hard to make them believe about my words, because they understand me and my incoherent talks. I like the time after dawn because of all those things. Because of my silent talk to the non-existent creatures under the vast black sky pronounced by the big silver moon.