In Limerence.

I now realize that it made no sense to stop the way I did. I stopped writing because I couldn’t think of anything to write about. And I refused to follow the sappy cliche of "Write, just Write. It doesn’t matter as long you Write." I hated the Capitals that "Write" commanded. They make less sense than me stopping to write. I am going to start writing again because I am an inherently selfish person. I’m going to start writing for the buzz I get after I’m done. It feels better than downing beers in quick succession looking into your boyfriends eyes while he does the same, it feels better than swinging myself on the 2-storey balcony ledge and waving to the people below, it feels better than deciding to get a tattoo and actually going through with it – it feels better and buzz-ier than anything I’ve ever done. I share this rare relationship with writing – We are in limerence, writing and I. We share this euphoric, almost obsessive feeling when we are together. A feeling that gives love a swift kick in the yoo-hoo’s where buzz-full is concerned.

I’m a selfish person. And I’m addicted to the buzz.

So sue me.

The best part about being "home" – make note of the quote unquote- is not the cushiness of having a comfortable bed and a fully stocked fridge. No, its not even the sultry silence. Its the little things. Its the smell that you’ll never find anywhere in Bombay. Its scarily expensive coffee beans, vanilla spice body butter and freshly made bread. Its so perfect and artificial its comforting. Its the feeling of soft carpeting under my feet when I swing out of bed. As opposed to cold tile (that sways between dusty or sticky) Its the way everything seems to just fit. Its the way everything seems new and shiny. Its the way everything from the malls to the taxi’s are so planned and agonized over, it fits into a perfect symmetry – or is symphony a better word? – that is enviable. This symmetry suffocated me when I lived at "home", but after almost 4 years of falling over myself in the meandering labyrinth that is Bombay, I see it in a new light. A light that is appreciated and analytical as opposed to, I don’t know – judgmental.

I’m tired of people asking me what I plan to do after I graduate in another year. I don’t like the looks on their faces when I actually tell them. It makes me feel like swishing my hair in their faces and pretending they don’t exist. And then murmuring something cooly sardonic under my breath. They think (or like to believe) that I’m one of those people that belong in a "prestigious" University "abroad" – so many quote unquotes, hooray!- writing a dissertation with an abnormally long title. And a lot of big words. I might have been. I’ve always liked to keep my future neat and tidy. I, despite what most people would like to think, believe myself differently. I also believe that is more important. I’ve decided that where I’d like to spend the rest of my life is where Im living my life now. I dont see why I should slog my ass off waitressing somewhere (or perhaps selling gloves at Debenhams) simultaneously managing a course load in a University in a country I care little for. What Ill have to show for it is the aforementioned dissertation and waitressing skills. And empty pockets with not much of a life or life experiences to speak ok either.  I like thinking that a random meandering future filled with literature, teaching, photographs and writing (writing Without Any Capitals) is more beneficial. "Beneficial" aside, I like thinking that this will make me happy. I like the feeling of thinking this.

I am in limerence with the feeling.

Of being "home", of a future in the "home" I left behind, of writing Without Any Capitals. 

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