I walk through the main door, heaving my gaze on every little thing I could see,
Daggering signs of unkempt mess, spread all over the floor,
Fringing little pieces with signs of dust obscured upon,
Every little memory I could reminisce, every solitary object thinkable,
And I realize, that I’m standing in the same living room,
Which once filled with unmeasurable content, Is now long forlorn,
With the walls brushing out It’s colour, floor musty, ceilings ambiguous,
Belted, I stride towards my parents’ room, still average sized, albeit dullish,
With the purple colour turned pale white, windows covered with hefty dust,
Spots where there were perfectly sketched paintings, now withered,
And my small buried light of hope dashes, bursting into flames.
Next I enter my room, the place where it all began,
All the hopes and ambitions, the curious revelations,
The curtains, once a heavy shade of blue, were now worn out,
The walls had spit out it’s true colours,
And the essence of the cologne was still there, but rotten.
I stand for a while, motionless, allowing the memories to rush down into me,
Eyes closed, while my eyelids flicker, as if reliving it all,
Shredded with the load of despair, I walk out,
Through the living room, and as I ponder upon all the long buried mystical memories,
I close the main gate, lock the house,
And keep the key exactly where I found it, under the rugged doormat.
The nameplate read “Home”.

I sit cross legged, on the dusty meadows filled with tiny pebbles of curiosity,
With the trees casting silhouettes, sheltering me from the blaze,
And then, surpassing all the thoughts, crawling slowly through under my skin,
I feel this rush of madness, of eccentric joy and curiosity,
like all the happiness is there, right ahead of me,
spreading open arms, asking for sustenance,
begging me to renounce the gloomy despair that’s causing all the pain,
making my knees go weak, senses go haywire.
But, I feel my body frozen, like a corpse,
And movement is the last thing I can do,
For all the memories, long concealed, strike me like an incisive bullet,
Etching through my nerves, wounding me with all the might,
Stopping me from leaving, from bequeathing the pleasure that awaits me,
And weak but wanting, I try, compelling myself,
To stride ahead, leaving behind all the unkempt mess,
Searching for a new beginning, with fingers intertwined,
And as I reach closer, I witness happiness,
Still there, with a wry smile, ready to take me in it’s refuge,
But as soon as I reach the end, I open my eyes,
Finding myself in the same place I was last night, my sweet, delirious bed,
And I wonder, “Only if it was that simple”.