Something sad in my bone and winter settles on the marble tiled floor. No one speaks here. Everything is quiet and now quieter because of the cold. And by speaking I mean, that one I admire and that one people fleetingly are fond of. You know those talks one craves, getting it? Then my feet touch that floor and the winter slowly scuffles its way up through my structure. So much that it's upon my sleeve, approaching towards the red turned, gloveless fingertips. Time was passing. But my mind asks the same question everyday and now, " Are you gonna write today?" I sneak out leaving a main door slammed with an enormous wave of wind to gaze at the stars. But there are no stars today. Then I boil some eggs for the old, exhausted , regular looking street dog who wanders around Ramu's chai stall everyday, waiting for some bread crumbs or food leftovers from customers and passersby. But we weren't that kind. We never bothered. Why would we waste a walk to a mad dog over Saturday night plans after juggling between work and home for whole six days? And the dogs are smart, he'll figure. Now suddenly you wanna feed him Mahek. You'll take all the walks it takes . But he is somewhere else today. "He filled the ground he digged. That's where he used to sleep." Ramu showed me. He left. Probably because no one cared. And I'd lost two poetries by now. I dial a friend to meet up over coffee and make up for my wrong doings. She didn't answer. I kept trying. She didn't pick once. I show up at her house, but she abandoned it six months back. No one in family joins my poem recital on the terrace. So I recite to the empty chairs, picturing a sudden yet satisfying eruption of exultant approbation from an imaginary audience.
But the real question was, "What should I write about today? ". The stranger dog who left the city tonight, about the stars that never came , about the family I have always disappointed, about the growing misery that's zilch compared to my blessings or the past that always makes me laugh. About the grief that people call " staged" or a father who works all day for his children . Or a mother who I am thankful for. Or maybe about how all this has long been over.
So, I don't think I should write today. Because this isn't real pain. "Your tears are fake and your actions are staged. You 're too weak. You can't survive in your poetries. You can't create a world of your own because sometime or the other, you'll stumble upon the reality. Just come back , Mahek. There is a sun outside because it's meant to be. Not because it wants to secure you in its warm embrace. Not that. "

But you know, the dog came back.