And that, horribly enough makes me hope - like the two or four black crows I see just when I've offered a prayer to the Goddess of the East (yes, didn't I mention I used to practice witchcraft?), like the name of a loved one just when I've succeeded in blanking it all out for over 5 minutes.
Yes, you can argue that they are common sights, and it is a very common name here in Bangalore, but to see it at that exact time? Makes forgetting very difficult, does it not? And it's not that I am seeking to find.
Take today. I've sprained my ankle and the doctor gave me a knock-out painkiller. I groggily woke up for lunch, my mind an absolute blank, my thoughts about how best to hobble with minimum pain. I joined my parents at the table and the TV was on and a movie began. The name of the movie? Well, a name I've used at least a million times in the past.
And it was a B-Grade horror flick at that which reminded me of past conversations again.
Love is so short; forgetting so long.
I find comfort in poetry. So when I opened my Pablo Neruda the other day, the first poem that opened up was the one about nostalgia, and memories, and being left alone. Quite fascinating I thought it to be. Was it a message from a dead man? Are the dead people talking to us? Telling us no matter what pain, happiness, or life experiences you are going through now, we've already experienced it before?
There is really nothing new with our universe.
There is absolutely no new inspiration. If I do bring out that stupid book of mine, they cannot ever accuse me of it not being new. There is nothing new. It's all a cycle that keeps repeating itself.
There are however plenty of signs that one reads and misreads to find comfort in. Hopes that trick us into believing. Lies that never let us let go. Coincidences that really hit you because they are too close for comfort.
And now I will get rejected anew for being too intense, for caring too much, and yes, for spraining my ankle, the horrible, sickly freak that I am!