The Home that was.

This was once my home.

A study shows that reading pattern of people have changed in the last few years.  A study conducted in US shows that 89 percent of status messages on Facebook which are more than 300 characters long go unread. How sustainable and justified is the effort that one can give to independent blog post writing in an era like this? After all, to simply talk to one’s own subconscious mind, one would rather write a diary. What’s the point of maintaining the blog?

I miss this place, this used to be a place where I talked to the stars. I talked to them, with sheer honesty of not being judged on foreground value to my syntactic grammatical accuracy. Somewhere in between, life took over and then every time I decided to write, I have to fight the same battle of self explanation to motivate myself for the effort that it would take.

This used to be the home. A decorated and celebrated home, but today all the stuff that lies here is under a blanket of dust. It appears out-dated. It is nevertheless close to my heart. Coming here, is like a dream. A dream in which I come back to my room and find everything placed in the same way, that I had left it. I open the cupboard and smile naively at the wall poster of Television series 'Friends' that lurks behind the clothes, smiling at me. I reach the table and pick up the portrait of the girl I used to love. I think of where she would be now. I move across to the refrigerator and open it, knowing that it would be empty and smelling like a deer dead on the highway three days back, yet I do that. I sit on the bed, and fondly move my hands on the bed sheet, knowing that it is dirty. I pick up the pillow and hug it again. I see out of the window and witness an era that has passed. I search for kids, which used to play cricket down the street. I think of where they would be, and whether they would ever know, that I used to smile hearing them yell at each other and cursing each other for making mistakes in the field. I smile in the mirror, a picture of someone who looks so unfamiliar rests behind it. It is a picture of me. A picture of who I used to be, once upon a time. I feel at home. I feel that I belong to this place, yet a part of me is not ready to believe that it would be worth to ever come back here again. A part of me, calls myself stupid for once decorating this place with all my heart. A part of me, questions – what was I thinking in the first place.

The familiar smell that used to bring comfort now brings nostalgia and pain. I reluctantly move out and close the door behind, allowing the sun to warm by face. Wait. There used to be light in there, why was the switch not working, has the bulb fuse or what. I turn again but stop. How does it matter anyways? I check the lock one last time and moves towards my car. The driver is waiting. I have moved on, or maybe not, or may be that decision was taken by destiny and not by me and I have just merely accepted the fact. I smile, knowing that even otherwise, it shall stay the same.

This is life. This was once my home. You used to once be my guests. You stopped coming. I stopped living.