The summer of 2013. I wondered if this month my birthday would be another one of the days I regret having been born on, or if it would be a beautiful memory, the kind I had from 2012. Why was I comparing my birthdays? Is this what I was reduced to? Definitely. Sitting on top of the little hill next to the entrance of my University campus, a pint of beer and a couple of smokes, I wondered if things would pan out the way I wanted them to. Living and existing parallel to my own hopes and dreams. I think this is the summer I’m going to miss out on.
I will probably spend most of my time in deliberate attempts of reorganizing my life according to the way I lived the past couple of years, as a clean hippie. Travelling and not bothering with what I was actually doing. Moving on from people like a comic book special. Once done, forever erased. Human lives, all encompassing the need to be loved and not love back. But wait. What’s the need? Is it just a falling hope of never being able to return to the youth we wasted out on all night parties, random sex, smoking like chimneys? I want that to return every time I sleep alone on that massive bed, surrounded by the ghosts of a girl I once was.
The tug I felt from home, is seemingly wearing out and each time I have to plan a journey back, I wish for a high speed car chase cum kidnapping. Will getting kidnapped change my feelings or will that just exacerbate my hate for the monotony? My needless wants of running away, breaking chains and becoming an adult surrounded by dying humans and crying children. We all have come a long way, sondere and bump into others like molecules in air. We create the heat, and in this infinitesimal vastness of our universe, we like it. I am looking up at the sky, while my heavy head instructs me to lie down calmly, within the arms of this beautiful breeze cooling up a warm, nondescript evening; a shooting star. Left alone to my own swirling thoughts of a life I want to lead, I switch off my phone. I dig into my left pocket and find a note, written to me by my 15 year old self. Not much of a note, just a sentence. “I’m sure you’re still alive”. I carry that with me. And yes, I was alive. I could feel my own heartbeats, my breathing and how my own skin felt to me. I was proud of how my body was, littered like body shapers were all of my scars, each with a new story. While the rest of the world wondered about body sizes, I was more worried about waking up in a different dimension.
Why was I here? Celebrating my birthday, happy birthday to me. I am another year older and now this word in Hindi comes to mind, ‘Aashcharyachakit’, meaning astonishment. Yes, I was looking at myself in astonishment to where I have reached. On top of this hill, waiting for another shooting star.