It hurts. Always. Memories. Would have been good to be an amnesiac. Ghajini?
Good memories, happy memories, smelly memories, sweet tasting, sugary syrupy memories – they all hurt. Always hurt.
Memories of places, of cobblestones, of peeling paint of narrow by lanes, of street corners overflowing with garbage cans, of familiar scents, wispy faint smell of aging books, of cologne and shaving cream, of chest hair and the sweaty smell of the arms on the hair, of sickly sweet cough drops and of damp dark places, of deep seated pain, of the stinking stench of broken hearts, of late nights and cold draughts, of colors and emotions, the vermillion of marriage, the red of unending hate, the sickly pale jaundiced yellow of stale salty tears shed over undeserving love, the dirty moss filled green of jealousy, the damp dark black of dejection and humiliation, they always hurt. The brown scabs of healing wounds, the orange hues of a new dawn, the white re-whitewashed life, the memories left behind, the memories taken along, the memories being formed, the memories being destroyed.
It hurts. Always. Memories.
In other news – caught up with a couple of friends, that was really overdue, Anu really. Thanks. Jab We Met. Missed Anu, missed komal. Missed so many misses and misters. Miss Mr. Hubby Dearest tons. (waise, miss Mr. seems so funny no?). bored actually. Nostalgia catches up, cant wait for the future to unfold though.