Today, when leaving Mary Jane, I felt a strange pull. I didn't want to leave her behind, I realised. Just two days can help you reconnect with yourself, your life, your cycle, so much. Riding along those cool winds, without a care in the world tugging at you from behind.
I am automatically drawn to the rhythymic sounds of the soft plastic ball as it scrapes the surface of the table tennis table. But today, I just went to see the table... silent, solitary, resting. I wasn't hoping to find anyone there, nobody of my peak calibre has existed since highschool honestly. I believe I draw a strange comfort from that sound. Even as I write, I hear the ball singing in the background, perhaps people have found their way to my music. But a man is only so much free to play as he wishes, when he wishes. Sometimes reality creeps up and pours its ugly face into one's mouth to give us a kiss of the bitter, foul essence of existence riddened with responsibilities and what not. My dearest paddle will have to rest tonight. I fondly refer to it as my precious. Even my Mary Jane.
I finally found a reason to get out in the evenings again. I had been waiting for it since Vadodara, the city I went to grad school in. Just me, my cycle, the winds of the night, and the promise of something magical. In a city like Pune, where cyclists have no place, I find trying to carve out a tree house rather unrealistic. After having completed a greater part of my studies here, its so dangerous to hope that life could get comforting again. Amidst all the chaos, it could be calm again. We managers are trained to prepare for the worst. I live by nothing short of that. And so, the promise of a beautiful tomorrow seems almost... foolish. And I can't believe I am saying that I'd like to be foolish.
This morning, I threw away this yellow rose which I had received as a gift sometime last week. It was one of the biggest specimen I could have found. It was earmarked. But I never got to take that mark off its ear. I figured that it'd be better to hold onto the memory of the rose in its fullest glory, rather than to see it wilt, whither, petal by petal, day by day, until one day it would just... break apart in my hands. I have seen countless roses die that death. This one I culled by mine own hands. It was perhaps a mercy not to the rose but to its memory... to me.
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