I had plans of pulling an all nighter, a night I wanted to dedicate to my new year resolutions and restarting the journal(which I am yet to), but by an hour after midnight and in the hope of taking a small nap, and telling myself ‘I wont fall asleep at all’, I mistakenly fell asleep. The next morning brought a huge shock for my cousin, two adjacent rooms of my floors had a theft, including my room. He lost a lot of things and I gained an untidier room.
Whats the best thing about trying to tidy room?
For me it has always been the process. On normal pace, I take a good number of three to four days to make my room look good enough to my father so he would stop asking me again and again to go and tidy it.
I love the process. I would always start with taking out the stuffs which are already arranged nicely in the shelfs and spread that in the room as well. I sometimes find the stuffs I have presumed to be lost months ago. I keep admiring them for hours, even though if their existence wouldn’t have mattered much if they were lost actually.
This time wasn’t that good. The room was a lot in mess, and that made me go through the shelfs i have heen just filling for the past year. ‘Hey babygirl,’ the first two words hit me, as i opened this another folder and looked at the first page visible. My conscious begged me to not go further but as if i ever listened to it. It was dated exactly a year back, and i could feel the night entering into my head. It was cold night when love kept me warm and awake. I turned the page further, and started reading through the first draft of my first love letter. An ache in my heart and still I had a smile over my face, even when i was alone in the room.
The next few pages followed, different discarded pages from different love letters i wrote to my lover during our relationship. I have always loved reading back through the stuffs i have written in past, but this time wasnt much enjoyable, and still i couldn’t help myself from not reading them. Each and every line of the pages had the struggle of the thoughts i went through to note a perfect poem, the pages i rewrote cause they were in bad hand writing, the snippets and short paras i wrote about us.
My heart skipped another beat as i reached the last pages, a series of ‘open when..’ letters i was writing to her, and even when i wasnt in love, missing myself, horny, wanting to meet me, hungry or anything, i opened them one by one and shed a tear to each. The last one was a little peaceful, an empty enevelope. None of those pages belonged to me, the only reason I had always kept them with myself was to have her read them one day, and the empty envelope seemed big enough to take them safely across the state to the destination.
I soon dropped the plan, it didnt feel right to do that. Maybe i no.more trusted her, and maybe i was afraid that those words might not even reach her. Or worse they do, deep down. She had loved those words once, everything about them, and maybe i was afraid what if she felt the same way again. I no more was allowed to interfere with ghe feelings, and so the best seemed to close the folder and put it back nicely, so that i could go through it again, hoping it wont feel the very same next time.