black and white, books, childhood, diary, experience, memories, nostalgia, pen and paper, photography, random, sweet memories, Uncategorized, words, write everyday, writer, writing


Walking up the alley after school towards my home at the highest point of the hill is a not so fun-filled activity in the most demoralising days of the week. It’s a path of constant self-retrospection and realisation of the activities I’m lagging behind as compared to the rest of the world. For most people, it would be a good walk of fifteen minutes with a perpetual series of encouraging and promising events that took place during the day. For me, it has always been the ‘over-thinking’. Sometimes I distract myself by watching my own feet while I’m walking, kicking aside every pebble that comes on my way as if they are my thoughts that I’m strenuously trying to brush aside. The path on the other side of the stream is smoother than this one. That road which leads me to my home looks like a long grey ribbon and the sight makes my soul jump with absolute joy! But it’s still a mile away. I walk faster and I see the stream gleaming from a distance. I stop by, contemplating to pick up something for my mother. The last time I picked some fresh yellow flowers tied with a blade of grass and the look on her face was priceless! I picked up some daisies this time, and carefully held them with both hands making sure not to crush them on my way. The journey on the other side of the stream is less tiring because I know that home is not too far from this place. I walk faster, matching the rhythm of my breath till I find that smooth concrete road waiting for me desperately to walk on. Trying to fill a block of tile with every step as I’m walking towards my destination becomes my favourite game now. And auspiciously enough, the size of my feet fits perfectly with the length of those grey concrete tiles. With every faultless step, my soul experiences a momentary satisfaction because I know, home is near, home is here. I don’t find my mother waiting for me at the door like she used to. Nor I see her waving at me from a distance. I see my mother on the bed and recline in peace in the smooth confines of her arms, with the daisies on the table, smiling at us from the jar…


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