The thing is...

See. Like he says,

The thing is…

The thing is. The thing is that,

It’s all done now. Almost.

To use a popular phrase,

It is but, a matter of when

And not if.

So, the rest doesn’t matter.

You went out,

Laughed a little, dimpled,

Even burned a few ends,

But, smile…

It’s all done now.

The social rituals,

They came in handy

When it was something you

Felt you lacked.

But then again, they

Were just that.

Aberrations on the particles

You actually contained.

Heady sways and, a penchant

For the unstable apart,

The familiar measuredness

Of everyday hard work,

Can now be smelt again,

On your fingertips,

And on the ones you hold.

I know you haven’t

Forgotten the claustrophobia.

Sandwiched between,

The then unknown,

Deluded giggles of others,

And your own stillness.

I know, even now,

A certain turn of phrase,

Air-lifts you backwards,

To a certain mood, you

Learned to hate, and

Wanted to fire, with

A palm-held flame,

But didn’t… and didn’t

Let go of the singed ends

For a while after.

I know, that somewhere

Despite your self-critical

Mistrust for words, you

Learnt that to live, is

To operate within

The confines of our

Shared vocabulary.

And that it was alright

To make the most of it,

And accept with a smile

Some of the salutations that

Came on their own.

Self created image, always

Tangented off that of

The Others. And sometimes,

Did too good a job of it.

But… the thing is…

The thing is, Suchitra,

It’s done. And now

There will be more reflected image,

Than ripple. More crisp

Fragrant brown, peppered

With the stubble of everydayness

Than smoke filled substitutes

For independence.

So the thing is, Suchitra,

The pages in the unwritten

Pocket diary are almost over.

Its now time, to arm yourself

With brown paper scrapbooks,

And to ensure that

None of the scraps henceforth

Will be missed.