Monday, August 12, 2002

Times few and far between when I wish I were anywhere but here (remember the shitty movie?).
I left home when I was 17, pretty late actually, I wanted to leave much before. Audience assumed the obvious, studies, career, a better life. They watched me walk. But I remember seeing me run. Run with a desperation that overwrote all transitionary problems and culture shocks.
I remember inhaling trouble, worries and potholes along with the heartache, loneliness and uncertainty. I remember learning to live with the constant indecision and the responsibility. I remember feeling me.

And I remember the heady rush of space. My own bubble and the breaking of that nagging lump. And all the growing-up. I remember arguing without the fear of not being understood and I remember walking tall, without wondering who was watching.

I remember flirting and sashaying and talking to strangers in the street.

It’s been a wonderful life.

Yet, remnants come back with the guilt and the nagging feeling that something somewhere shouldn’t have been this way. That home does stuff for you and you do nothing for it. And you do nothing because it does not accept anything done for it. And your way is not necessarily always the right way. And sometimes it’s better to turn your head than watch the ruin.The cracks run deeper than the surface and you have learnt to walk around them, but some are lodged permanently in the security of erosion.

And I cannot watch, so I’ll run again. It works wonderfully with practice.
Anywhere but here.

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