Few more hours before…

Few more hours before I see you dear. The SMS…

Her heart was pounding in sync to the rhythm of the house music she was listening to. She remembered for a moment that narrow escape she had from a stampede at a music festival whilst waiting to see the DJ. David Guetta was more than a crush for her then. She felt like her heart was melting into a thousand dew drop settling down on the white rose she adored in her parents garden. The white butterfly that appeared was a sign for her she believed. There were decisions to be made and she always felt compelled to do so in her mind whenever this little white butterfly appeared from no where. So he is coming. What will she wear? What will she say? What will she cook? Why not hide him upstairs like a comrade hiding during the communist witch hunt in Kerala. Or make him a statue and place him in our garden. How weird our minds are with our unnatural thoughts and how pretentious and normal like our outward self is to go with the nature meme.

Perhaps she means nothing for him.
But it started for her with that.

Few more hours before I see you dear. The SMS…

She kept reading that SMS again and again in her mind, in her wandering thoughts, as if every word was a dot in her history, a point, a turning point. A history which itself would be a dot very soon. All those dots in history made my peoples lives and blood and tears. A time line filled with emotions, which if we zoom would be all ups and downs and ups and downs. Her suitcase was still unpacked, not that she is disciplined. The nomad she i,  the boxes would remain there for weeks, months sometimes years preserving her memories and the smell of the people she met along. All those boxes were precious to her. Her father gifted her that red suitcase for her marriage, a bright red suitcase. She stared at it for hours and hours together and decorated the box with patterns using the cigarette ashes. Red and ash seems like a good combination, should remember she thought during her next shopping spree. The fact that he sent the very same SMS to his new lover made her crumble.

Perhaps there was nothing anyway to end.
But still it ended for her.

Few more hours before I die. The Email.

She liked the sound of it, it went well with that SMS, like Rum and Coke. We all live in our minds so did she. Even people are only thoughts in our minds. Every minute that passed by after sending that email she waited for his call. She took all the sleeping pills out, arranged them in a line, and spoke to them. She told them about her dreams, her failures, her vanity, her lovers and her fantasies. Every pill was a dot, a dot that will wipe her off. It will wipe her dreams and her failures all in once. But not from her dear ones minds perhaps.

Perhaps it is time to end
But she remained as a dot in history

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