puntos de partido

The weekend is over and the silence is deafening. Yet another great friendship is on the brink of separation. I couldn't sleep last night, wallowing in self-pity, pondering the big questions, and feeling a loss that had not yet been realised. And like all the few goodbyes that ever really mattered to me, the moment passed in tight-lipped silence, a nod, and a walk away. Of course no looking back. I laugh at my own childish reticence, a steeled reaction to the emotions simmering under my skin. How did it feel Kiran, when I left? And for my brother, how did it feel when the little sister who shared so many pained, mean, funny, childish experiences with you, always looked up to you, told you she wouldn't come back? And Paula, my second mum, sobbed into my shoulder, knowing better than I, that I wouldn't return? Before, it was always I who left, never the one left behind. Is it easier to leave than to be left?

And it's never simply about the departure per se, but rather the re-evaluation that follows. The re-evaluation of all the minutiae in one's life, all the possibilities and potential, the regret and the lost moments, the people whom you feel blessed to have known.

And then you reach a stillness, and wispy white puffs, clouds, the epitome of transience, move silently and effortlessly across the backdrop of blue ether. And you remember, one door closes, another opens. Life goes on. And we are damn lucky if we can appreciate the beauty that rushes by.