Hey you!

Dear Universe,

Before pouring it out on you, I would like to ask, do you exist? Were the profound writings of Hemingway and the fantasy-laden world of Charles Dickens a waste, when all they did was propagate love and goodness through their work? Is the universe, which embodies equality, going to let it all go in vain?

It all comes back in a flash. The melancholic melodies, the grayness, the numb-old-self when one low hits my skin. So is there any redemption to that? Are you there? Anywhere? Who I can call a perfect companion?

Were the great writers of the past also called ‘insane’ and ’too-touchy’ for over thinking the emotional stuff? They all were men too right? Or the contemporary-ness of today’s scenario demands a hard shell? I thought I could flip myself, loosen up, be fluidic, stay happy, change into what I was exactly not, into a colourful body, but doesn't work that way right? No one is really going to see the rainbow, respect it, and offer a bigger one in return is it?

If all this is untrue, then I see no reason belittling myself and asking every day for the right one. I chose not to regret, go with the flow, but people just follow their own tune, and never even realise that they might just be murdering the dead, already.

If all this is untrue, then prove it to me. Show me, make me bump into, make me cross paths with the one who you know for sure is going to frown when I am low, is going to dance when I’m in glee, is sensitive when I am all heavy-heart, knows it all when I’m quiet.

I see people, holidaying together, madly in love with each other, dedicating statuses to each other, surprising each other, going an extra mile for each other, waiting for each other all day long to appear online, calling out to each other, giving themselves away for each other, melting for each other, respecting each other, not-exploiting each other, completing each other, singing songs to each other, gifting each other, being there for each other, offering a cup of tea to each other when one is sick, cooking for each other, whispering to each other, enjoying rain with each other, not-cribbing with each other, listening to each other, understanding each other, reading into each other’s lines, sitting right beside each other on low-days, comforting each other with silences, not being self-obsessed when with each other, asking each other about their dreams, changing for each other.

So if I am the one, in this each other, where is the other one? Does she exist? Is she around and I’m not seeing her? Am I over expecting like those writers of the past?

Every time I think its fine now, you give me something to lament on. Why? If I don’t deserve it, then end the agony at once, but If I do, then you've got to stop playing the fuck around.

The tightrope that I'm walking just sways and ties…