Letter to Cycle

Dear Cycle,

It is an extremely pleasant evening of flowing curtains on opposite sides of the living room, as I decide to write to you. I have also switched off the fan, and though that means couple of bugging mosquitoes, the sound of the breeze is tempting me to believe that there might be a drizzle later. A drizzle of relief. Sudden bouts of rain, in any form, has always meant just one thing -- go out and get wet. The repercussions are never to be considered at that moment. You were one such thing of my life too, go out to and with. Pleasant.

If I were to cycle this letter to you, I would be lost beyond knots of nautical miles. I wouldn't know where to find you, I wouldn't know where to begin looking for you. The last I remember of what they did to you is sell you off to some not very well off cycle-enthusiast. But I very well remember how you came to me. As a vehicle of convenience. And how you brought along an entire cosmos of being. As I took off I felt similar to how the flowy curtains must be feeling now. Free. Chained, but free.

A decade must have broken you down to scrap. Handlebars, rods, seat, brake (the right hand side my preferred one), bell, chain, wheel, spokes -- dismantled uniformly into neat sets of scrap. How can I then look for you? Honestly, all I am looking to conjure is a memory of you, and that dear one is too precious to ever classify as crumbs. The bell may not tinkle now but when it did, it felt like a natural extension of my spirit to yield the gate open.

Wherever, and in whatever shape you are now in, my letter is too tiny an attempt in trying to find and convey to you what you meant to me. You meant to me the evening breeze after a tiringly long day. You meant to me the freedom of whenevers and wherevers, and with whoevers. You meant to me tireless excitement. You meant to me a now of possibilities in a time when tomorrows were all that determined life.

One cannot pedal back,

K.