My dusty bookrack and unkempt wardrobe began to create a different type of unrest inside me. The one where the clutter around you starts becoming a reflection of the chaos within you. So I decided to get into order. Finding you under a heap of mess, I flipped through your pages soaked in the peculiar vanilla fragrance every old book has; uncannily complimenting my failed poetic attempts.
My monologue with you has been long-due. In our time apart, you’d be glad to know I’ve made some progress since my last nervous breakdown.
My anxieties of the past and future are no strangers to you. Lately, all of them seem to have vanished into thin air. I don’t want to sound pretentious and make false claims of living in the moment. But I must admit, the emptiness from my monotony, which once made me feel like all my energies were sluggishly evaporating like a puddle on a summer afternoon, is gone now. Though I still haven’t found my sense of purpose, I think I’m getting there. I’m no longer impatient to wait for an answer. I feel like I’m just a few mornings away from a more resolved life.
Maybe all this optimism stems from a realisation that the past is as stale as the clichéd dry rose in you. Failed romances, distant friends, poignant what-ifs, unembraced adventures are nothing but a bygone world now. As of the future, it’s beyond our reach anyway. Planned paths always succumb to the manipulative hands of fate.
Am I happy? No. But I’m content. My cheap wine has ceased to be a sleep-inducer. Instead, it has become the perfect companion for my midnight melodies. My curiosity has gained momentum, appetite has skyrocketed and I’ve finally found solace in blank pages and blue ink. If only you didn’t have all these dog-ears, I’d come back to you more often.
As for the spotless shelves and neatly piled clothes, they’ve worked their magic.