Letter to Runway

Dear Runway,

You will receive this letter amidst many ambitious takeoffs and hopeful landings. You may miss to notice that it has arrived, amidst all the air-noise and electronic voiceovers and lifesize queues and rounds of concentric wings striving to make a move. I visited you after a generous gap today and it was as if you happened just to remind me that I never wrote to you. In fact, was I not supposed to be amongst achingly beautiful graveyard trees today? Instead, I met you.

And even as the flight landed before I could feel the disturbance of the take off or the turbulence that I have internalised, you came along in a whiff of memories where you stood tall, strong. For all such times you have helped me run away, today you stood as the hand that holds to bring back. Homewards. However awkward that might sometimes feel. Homewards. Towards doodles of careless childhood ambition which has possibly unfolded upon me such a ambiguous adult present.

I returned to an area of geographic land, precisely after a decade, which is homeland. And yet, each time you helped me escape from what is 'home'. Home is a place, is it? Or is it the people? Or, is home where the heart is? I have returned with the clouds biting off the orange of the harsh sun to coat the coy moon till it finally sheds off all such shades, to reveal a brightness true to the soul. I have returned to the fancies of the playful sky and clouds, where you take me. 

You have always meant to me what a promise has. Not an escape. Not a means. Just an end. Amidst comfortable decibels and gorgeous purviews, you help me run away. To. Not from. This white rum and coke combination is beneficial to the bones. I hope to have a dream of you. Where you tell me that you have received my letter. Concretely.

Let's run away,

K.