contemplation on time

                                                                                                                     My father is an avid reader. I paused before writing this sentence because I felt like ‘avid’ wasn’t a word that was justifying enough. He read so much that one time when I was 12, I brought my friends home and the first thing they said, almost simultaneously was ‘wow, this looks like a freaking library’. Oddly, not once had I thought of this. I grew up among tons and tons of books and it seemed perfectly normal to me. He would buy books out of a sheer impulse. There are times, he’s told me, in college when he was down to literally his last bucks but preferred to buy a nice copy of Salman Rushdie which-I cannot stress enough- he’s probably already read. So it’s only natural that he has many.   I was in ninth grade when he got heavily into Murakami and out of a whimsical impulse bought Norwegian Wood. He got it for half the price because he knew the owner o

September was her month and it looked like she’d taken the blue out of everything in the world and painted the month with it. All of this gloom and suddenly 500 kilometres wasn’t what I was worried about. I was afraid of calling you on that dreadful day. but your new best friend gave me your number so I dropped you a text instead. ‘Happy birthday’, i said. A high school musical.   A few inside jokes. Some songs I would’ve never listened to if it wasn’t for you. These are the only things I would’ve missed if I hadn’t met you. Yet, between us, am I the only person who has lost something ? Something I think about more often than I’d like to admit. Something that slightly aches where there isn’t much to ache. To write this, it took me a year and two of your favorite songs. I’ve read these lines a thousand times and each time, I feel differently but none of them are gonna make it on this paper. Each time, I want to introduce something ne