I write because, it still hurts and the pain comes in between my intent to achieve a level of mechanical efficiency, if not passionate highs. I know you will still occupy the empty spaces between my words. Each time I hit the space bar and wait (sometimes in deep agony) for the next word to take shape in my head, you jump in, from nowhere owning the silences in between. It is funny that you feel like you have a right to occupy my spaces, for I know nothing of you or own anything of yours. In spite of that you are there-in the morning when I stand in front of my wardrobe blankly staring at the ironed pile of clothes, pretending to choose the color of your liking for my shawl (as if I happen to know your color preference). And you come again, later, when I am in the bathroom waiting for the slow trickle of hot water to fill the bucket; on other days the same slow trickle would have angered the impatient me, but ever since you pierced that stinger so skillfully through my skin, my soul is still- as in a clichéd saying. Is there a psychological dimension to anaphylactic shocks? I don't know! As you might know by now, I am no big sucker for science!
All that I own of you is your words-only those which you decided to utter after serious contemplation. Thanks to this era of electronic communication that we live in, I can repeatedly look at those words of yours and confirm my ownership of them and take a thrill in those little formations of meanings you typed out carefully to save text space(making you sure you don't give out a single extra letter). But you own more words of mine. I see your triumphant smile when you manage to make me give you more while you return almost nothing in exchange. And I foolishly feel heavy with joy while knowing about the truth of this unfair deal.
My foolishness is not your victory but my choice to let you in. That is why this barter system, where we exchange nothing but words, is in your favor. And that is why you occupy all these empty spaces of mine-when I wait for my laptop's blue screen to go black, when I wait for the nail paint to go dry before walking again, when I am having second thoughts about my folks' dream to see me walk down the aisle in a gown (or is it a sari? Catholics are yet to make up their mind on what suits the subcontinent) and when I reassert my doubts over the conventional definitions of love(Catholics are yet to make up their mind on that front as well....)
by choice, the cryptic story teller!