MY ANON

All my past attempts to fill this blog with pieces of work which reflected my true character, or the sureity of my thought patterns have failed miserably. All that i have been able to produce are a handful of experiences, bits from other people's discarded histories, my own version of romanticism and violent reactions to freindly squabbles (forgive me Mr.Ghosh , for a not-so-subtle reference to 'that' fight).

For all those times past, i assure you , i'm highly apologetic.

So, what i'll write today will be run of the mill.It'll be like a story you've heard many times yet you can't remember.It will be like your cup of tea, mundane in its purpose, yet eagerly anticipated in the morning.It won't be my best work.But it won't be my worst either.

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She'd known it all her life.So had he.But he had had more guts.Always. He 'd always said it with out inhibition. And all she'd done was turn away, each time.Though she' d wanted to say it just as much....
"But it'll come out all wrong" she kept telling herself.
It was hard to hold back.Especially when his favourite song played over and over again in her ears.It had never been a Mills and Boons romance. There were never any flowers, or scented cards.There had never been any 'dates ' or anything that went with the conventions of being a teenage couple.She had wished desperately that he be a more pliable 'boyfriend' , though she hated that word.

But there were ' five-hour phone conversations ' , letters written in earnest words and beautiful handwriting.There were referencs to 'GOD' by atheists.There were musical debates about the supremacy of U2 over Coldplay , or Coldplay over Oasis. There were debates over debates. They used to walk past those parks and gates innumerable times, till they were all smudged into one big conspiring universe.Conspiring to keep them afloat.There were never any bold promises.There were only soft reassuarances. There were red sweaters and green uniforms, and paper's soaked in blood. There were unfurling of family secrets, of well-hidden scars. There were a million moments of gratitude. And conversely of ill-guised venomous hatred. There was a constant stabilty and yet a hundred reasons that shook that confidence everyday. There were scenes, both in private and otherwise.There were maths questions raised and solved.
There were passionate declerations of love. There were practical reasons for doubts.
And ofcourse, there was always 'PRACTICE' under scrutiny.
And there were a great many tears.

But now it all seemed distant to her.Like a dream that one cannnot quite remember in all its entirety.She had moved on and two years seemed like a lifetime ago. A lifetime that she'd lived every moment of. She hadn't thought of him every moment, but sufficiently enough not to let him forget her. She had been 'frequently kind' and 'suddenly cruel' to him. And he'd borne it all, with the greatest sense of forbearence and humility. She had put him in and out of misery. She had a right to. That was how it worked for them. That was how it had worked for them all long, even when it wasn't working at all.

She couldn't even remember what he'd looked like the first time he'd said her name out loud. She couldn't remember their first phone call. Neither could he. Yet, as she looked at him, emerge from the crowd that had gathered around the food stalls in a not-so-crowded concert, she knew she'd say it out loud. To him. To anyone he wanted her to say it to.It was the knowledge that he would never ask her to do such a thing , made her want to say it even more.
Yes, a story like this can only find culmination in your imagination. This could be its pinnacle, or even be near its end.You can never tell with these 'Strawberry Fields' tales.

They are just as mis-shapen and unhinged as the song is. What were the Beatles thinking.