To My Dearest

To my dearest,

How are you?

Well, I hope?

Time is a funny thing, isn’t it? A language of its own; an emotion without boundaries. Somehow, they’re not just a part of you but, they make us too. And yet, we can’t have time ever… Have you ever wanted to catch time and hold on to it for just a bit more time? Like catching a butterfly on a summer afternoon?

Alas. Time is something that’s always there yet never ours.

Say, remember that impromptu drive to the mountains? Remember how the twilight wrapped us in an infinity as the sun set?

Life always gives us moments. One, two, three… infinite, really. Life’s a box of moments. Life’s a box of infinities.”

Infinities…

But then, not all infinities are infinite.

Yet, time makes them infinite; eternal. Captured as memories, our little infinities in our little box of infinity.

You must be wondering why do I write to you? Why do I write to you of all this?

To be honest, I don’t really know. Maybe to create another infinity? I don’t know. Perhaps to add another infinity to our infinity. Our last infinity…

Remember how we drank steaming hot tea at that five star hotel? Remember how we drank cold coffee at the roadside stall a kilometre away from that hotel as soon as we left? Haha. That was quite the December night, wasn’t it? The scales read ten degrees but, it felt a hundred within. A night of contrasts; a night of memories. Another infinity in our little box of infinities.

Say, are you getting bored? I do hope not.

I’m drinking the large cup of cold coffee from that same place as I write my infinity of thoughts to you.

Except this time, I drink it alone. This time, I drink it with a memory in my heart and a vacuum of a memory that could be.

Time is a funny thing, isn’t it?

I write to you today, pouring my infinity of thoughts, in remembrance of an infinity and an infinite number of infinities it contained.

I write to you, trying to gather our infinity; gather and capture time like that rainbow in that soap bubble in that summer afternoon.

I write to you, of our contrasts, trying to paint your neon heart with my pastel words. In memory, of ice lollies in winter nights.

I write to you, with my feet tapping to our dances. Our dance in the rain; to the rain. Our dance to our heartbeats as we waltzed by the hearth in our shades of love and warmth.

I write to you, in silence, letting my words whisper into your ears. Like those nights that went in silence but spoke oceans. Of those silent walks over the railway tracks where our breaths and eyes spoke. Of that silent hug that connected our souls and made her hearts sing in tune.

Our moments. Our memories. I write to you in their name.

I write to you in the name of an infinity you gifted me.

Infinities are such a funny thing, aren’t they? They promise of a forever but with a clause.

Infinities. Forever. Memories.

Time.

They’re all little packets of our being, of our making. They’re those little packets that are never with us but always ours to keep.

So I write to you.

I write to you of our infinity, in the name of our infinity as our infinity comes to an end.

Love,

Ananta

 

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