*Wanderer*

2:18 am.

Late at night, when sleep abandons you, you end up pondering over where you might have gone wrong to encounter the huge number of failures. I tried to rewind the 19 years of my existence and from whatever I could recollect, it hit me that I would never trade one moment of my life. Not that it has been blissfully amazing, no. But because it has shaped me, for whatever I am, for how much ever broken or mended. What are we, if not the history that creates us? Haven’t you ever wished that you had Doreamon’s time machine for a chance to go back and change the past. I did, sometimes more than ever.

A friend had told me yesterday that I am a woman of free spirit. That the element of surprise was more of my thing. I was scared of how my mates seemed to have their entire future planned out while I was still at a deadlock. Many had said that I would eventually figure it out and many a times had I questioned the ‘eventuality’. He, on the contrary, had said that I would someday live in a cute little house of my own doodled art, surrounded with books and paints and a few insane souls who would constantly chatter like I do, while being mesmerized by the silhouette of the clouds in the moonlit sky.

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I realized that it might be the exact reason of my failed attempts at relationships. You see, I wonder at how is it possible for a few people to be in love forever without any hindrance. Forever is scary. And that makes me wonder if something is inevitably wrong with me. Now that I look back, I think I have finally figured how they seem to stick together despite the hurdles while I never could. I, on the other hand am in love with a lot of things simultaneously. I love how someone would talk about their first heartbreak, with a sadness that dilates their pupil. I love how the girl I had just met would obsess over her favorite character in the recent book she had read and it would turn out to be one of my favourites, too. And how we would immediately bond over our similar taste of music and the veins on Enrique’s arms or his heartbreaking and sexy voice. I love how the guy who I hardly know would captivate me with his sarcastic humour and go on and on about his passion with a hunger that glowed in his face. I love how the senior I had never seen being anything but cheerful would gulp down bottles of beer, sitting on the edge of the roof and hysterically pour his heart out. Of how that girl with braces who everyone made fun of would curse the friend who had left or how her parents fought on the most trivial of things. Or how the guy who would always tease me, pull my hair, make fun of me and have a constant smile on his face hid the fact that he had been just a step away from death and he had immense faith in God amidst the large number of atheists who surround him.  I love the vulnerability and the roughness a person hides. Is that why I have never been good with the concept of love? Because I have been in love with the most trivial of things, simultaneously. Love is overrated, someone had once told me. I had laughed at him, a bit hurt for romance was my favourite genre, for I believed in soulmates. Perhaps, he was right. It might be, for us wanderers out there. For those of us who are never satisfied with what we get. For the ones ever-thirsty to find a permanence. The same routine bores us. The same voice and the same phone calls in that particular interval never leaves any chance of the element of surprise.  

Predictable is boring, I had heard. Would you want to be a blatantly tedious soul?

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