ABHI_CONSC

"Damn, son, your endoscopy looks like you're either a fifty-year-old investment banker or a chain-smoker — but your file says you're only twenty-two." Those were the words I heard as I woke up, with only a faint idea of where I was, the mechanical buzzing and beeping of the heart rate monitor going off around me. How did I end up in the hospital? The last thing I remember is writing something late at night, and then suddenly there was a strong abdominal pain that gripped me — and after that, all I remember is curling up and screaming as if my insides were about to burst. "Look, son, whatever you're into, these things aren't good at your age," said the doctor, looking over my endoscopy report. I was told I had a peptic ulcer in my stomach, and some ulcers in my mouth. The mouth ones I know — I've been dealing with them for a fairly long time — but the stomach one, well, that was something new. So, like any curious person, I opened up Google and ty...

You loved flowers, but I never bought you one, for I had this stupid idea — stupid, but one I ardently believed in — that why pluck something to show your love, or kill it as an expression of joy or love? Flowers are more beautiful when they are in nature; they bloom, they smile, and they give way to new life. Why do we need to pluck them and give them away — what good do we do for them, if not just make them a showpiece, or keep them safe in a diary or as a bookmark? But I don't understand what joy that brings us. For when I see that old, wrinkled, slowly dying flower, it only reminds me of what I have done to such a beautiful gift of nature — why have I killed a thing of such beauty? People do give flowers — not just a single one, but a whole bouquet — as an expression of love, of mourning, or of care. They believe the flowers put a smile on the face of their loved ones, and that smile is worth it. Maybe all of what we do is an attempt to put a smile on our loved ones...

Do you remember the day we last met? I am pretty sure you must have forgotten about it; after all, we only remember that which we try to keep holding onto, attempting as much as possible to save the moment. One even goes to the length of wishing that maybe time should stop right here, and this moment shall stay as it is for a long time. It was a chilly winter morning when I last saw you. You were not very far from me, but still, the distance was a giant leap. I was scared that if I took one extra step towards you, all this would end or just shatter, as if it was a dream. you walked at your own pace i was right behind just one step shorter. Even after so long i can't help but ask myself, what would have happened if you had turned towards me, and I would see the same hesitation lingering in your eyes? No, I wished that you would have never looked back at me. "Looking back"—doesn't this term kind of summarize most of our lives? We usually say to our close ones, or even t...

The day began as usual. It was not particularly a rainy day, though in the late afternoon, it did turn gloomy. But it was beautiful; the skies were split in half, with one side as bright as your smile and the other as dark and deep as your eyes. I stare at the mountains that are not very far from my home and, as always, wish how beautiful it would be to spend some time with you there. I hope there comes a day—and not just one day, but days—that we can travel to these places I have saved in my collections, always wishing to myself that I could see it all with you. Though I have no issues with traveling alone, having someone at your side gives a strange sense of calmness, especially if it's someone who deeply cares for you. That kind of calmness adds to what one experiences by witnessing these grandiose mountains. Especially during the evening, when the sky goes dark and the mountains start to sparkle with light, I always feel that they are calling me. I always wish to travel to them...

You sat there, merely looking out at the mountains, and I looked at you; we both looked at what gave us peace. Walking on the path to the top of the mountain has never been so beautiful—you a little ahead of me. I don't wish to catch up to you; it's really beautiful seeing you ahead of me. You are happy. I am not sure how true it is, but you seem happy. A journey has never been such for me; never have I met such a person. How do you carry such a peace around with you? You walked to the top at your pace, yet it looked as if the whole of nature was dancing along with you and giving you way. I don't even remember why we began this journey, or was there ever a "we" in this? I was merely a spectator in all this. You came as lightning, and then you left a calm breeze of coldness. Anyway, returning to the journey, it was an unexpected one to be exact; with you, things have been pretty unexpected. It's never "here and there" in the plan—it's always right...

 Dear Stranger, As we grow old, the day when we leave our home it always feels that a part of us stays back. wherever we are that part calls us out. as we grow, we realize the people that were our superman and women are not so strong anymore. their smiles give away that tiredness. the backs ache but they don't tell. Anyone who has ever left home knows this feeling. For a long time, I have always dealt with this how does the city looks so different the day we are about to leave. idk how great of an answer I have, but I believe it isn't the city, it's us we try to hold as much as possible of that place where we have been through day and night but not anymore. We fear that as this moment passes it might dissolve in that endless void where most things disappear and somewhere we know that it might not be the same. the parks might change; the tracks might change. but we always wish that the home stays the same. the point we enter the door it's the same place spent our days lo...