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X: Did you run away?

Y: I thought I should try it out once.

X: Why?

Y: Maybe, I want to live.

X: Live for what?

Y: For myself.

X: What about your family? Friends?

Y: They are important to me.

X: What about it?

Y: They are important to me but I am more, to myself.

X: You don’t love them enough?

Y: I think I do. 

X: You think? You don’t know?

Y: I do.

X: I don’t think you do.

Y: You don’t know me enough to know that.

X: I know you. You were scared and you tried to escape.

Y: That’s your assumption. You can never know anybody enough.

X: Maybe. I would partly agree to it. But that doesn’t prove the point.

Y: The point is, there is never really a point. Nothing is right and nothing is wrong. Everything is based on assumptions and emotions are too abstract to be understood, fully. You can never understand anyone completely and you shouldn’t try to. 

X: Why?

Y: If you knew everyone too well, life would be boring. There comes a saturation point, when we start predicting people and their actions and you get to know most of what everyone would do, before they even do it. Thats not very exciting.

X: You are weird.

Y: You shouldn’t try to understand me.

X: You are contradicting yourself. 

Y: How?

X: You are assuming life would be boring if you knew people too well, which is a fact but according to you nothing is right or wrong, yet you still feel you are right about your thoughts.

Y: I could be wrong, I could be right. Human thoughts can be complicated. I am not trying to prove myself here. This is my assumption and it can contradict yours and your opinions doesn’t matter much to me and it shouldn’t bother you too as well.

X: I wish I understood you more.

Y: You can try. But its going to be tough.

X: It’s gonna be exciting.

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If only there was an easier way of explaining, I wouldn’t have been making up stories.

My mother tried teaching me all possible practical methods of dealing with the society while putting me at a safe distance from most of her own secrets. Most probably, I grew up knowing nothing and doubting everything. This, infact, isn’t one of those lazy Brontë sister stories where a girl dreamt of secured life while having written about feminine freedom. Every character in their books, got married, had strange children or died of tuberculosis. It sounds pretty ironic to me. I almost had a laugh but it died when I started thinking about how clueless I was. I did have a laugh. Maybe it was all in my head. I don’t know. But something seriously went wrong.  It wasn’t one of my intentions. If only, there was an easier way of explaining. Maybe I thought for a moment I could pull off a Brontë joke pretty well. Or maybe my mother was right about everything she ever spoke of. She did manage to make me think over my uncertainty. Infact, I have been infamously called a dreamer throughout my life. If you ask my mother, it wouldn’t make me sad if she doesn’t agree with it. At the least, I’ll be glad about my uprightness on having accepted certain facts about myself based on social norms. Like we all do. Accepting society as they speak about us. Letting people judge us without them having the slightest idea about our personal lives; letting people talk, listening to them and sometimes making guilty decisions against our own conscience. Lets not lie. We all do these petty mistakes but there isn’t enough time for blaming anyone anyways. Why put so much effort on people? I mean, people in general and more precisely the kinds who love the Brontë sisters or the kinds who would feed every kinds of food to every street dog in the community for the welfare of society and other strange health related issues. I am socially incapable of understanding dog issues at times. Don’t ask me why, I wouldn’t answer you because I don’t like to lie and I personally have nothing against dogs. I assure you with all my honesty, I adore them as much as I love resisting myself from posting dog videos on people’s wall post. If only there was an easier way of explaining, I wouldn’t have mentioned dogs.

My mother once told me, I shouldn’t dream too high. If I may recall possible heights of her dreams and combine it with mine, all of our above average dreams would still seem unrealistic to her. Infact, she fits well in all of Brontë’s novels but I don’t feel the need to get married, having strange kids or dying of tuberculosis. If only there was an easier way of explaining, I wouldn’t have mentioned Brontë.

The Irony in my life. The last book I gifted my ex boyfriend before I left him was called Never Let Me Go.

Part 1.

We met through friends. I had met him before but I pretended not recognizing him. He did not recognize me but he did know a little about me. Some random things like how I talk in monosyllables. It was one of the usual gatherings at strangers. They were smoking up. I was watching them roll. He did not know how to use the paper. I was clueless. I was with strangers for the only reason that they were about to offer me some food. So much for the love of food, you know. And I played my part well. Sitting at one corner pretending to listen to people and not saying a single word. He was probably the nicest person in the room, I assumed, because he offered me the joint, which I denied and then he said hi. I told him we had before. He wasn’t sure about that. I described how his room was, how his mother looked and how he looked four years back. He was convinced that we had met before but he was still unsure. I was glad my memory wasn’t a failure.

He dropped us home. He offered me a hug and I gave him a handshake. Formality. Clean shit. I don’t like hugs. He did not like awkward formality. He didn’t take the handshake. I remembered him for his awkward denial. He remembered me for my awkward handshake. End of the conversation. We never exchanged numbers.

Part 2.

We met again at different places by mere coincidences. Sometimes while I would be checking out clothing stores and commenting over bad garment detailing. Most of the times he would be trying to finish unfinished books sitting in the bookstore. He would join us most of the times and he seemed excited learning about fabrics. I found out knowledge made him happy. It wasn’t the clothes. I fed him the fashion knowledge. He understood my point. It wasn’t the clothes and he wasn’t against homosexuals. Something about that made me happy. I finally started talking. He fed me literary knowledge. He was an English student who sincerely loved Helena Bonham Carter and our conversations never ended. We exchanged numbers. He later thanked me. I wasn’t sure why but I thanked him too. He was an honest man.

Part 3.

We met with friends. We ate at strangers’ dinner invitations. We walked at the park with dogs. We had dog conversations. We slept on park benches. We made fun of people on the streets. I stole his father’s shirt. We shared secrets. We made fun of each other. We made fun of the dogs. I made fun of his songwriting. We shared headphones. We sneaked in strangers’ houses just to watch movies. Everything was about movies. Everything was about books. Everything was music. We discussed songs. He understood the kinds I listened to. I never understood the kinds he liked. I sang once on repeated request. He denied singing. He was a paid vocalist but I have never heard him sing. He never sang even after repeated requests.

We were friends who never talked over phone. We were good friends. We never posed together for a photograph.

Part 4.

It’s been more a year now. He disappeared completely after I left him. Left no trace. My stalking skills never really worked. I eventually stopped thinking about it after I realized I am better off alone with no responsibilities to tie myself with. There is an utter peace in letting people go at the right time for the right reasons before you start hating them for the wrong reasons. Memories seem more precious when they are only the happier ones. It was a nice memory and it was lovely meeting him.

Part 5.

I am grateful to him for introducing me to this song.

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