Dear Chhuti,
You know what? I am in the process of writing another letter (which I must complete), and a story-kind-of-something (which too I must complete), when I suddenly deviated towards you. I guess this is what we will call letter-pathy, if ever a word like that comes into circulation. I just opened another tab and started this. The qualitative nature of your elusive being is so alluring that sometimes it feels like a diabolic influence.
Times are bad Chhuti. Very bad, very unsettled. And very, very imposingly petty. It has engaged my involvement even without me willing to be a part of it. Times are such that there is this call for you from within. A call from the gut, and it believes that if you don't come along soon, I would rot. Yes, rot, not die. You are no longer just a means of wish-fulfillment, but you have become that fountain of love which keeps flowing and breathing life into me. And, now, the Chhuti-fountain through my veins that run is passionately deprived of you. In such circumstances, tell me Chhuti, how does one survive?
Come along, my bags aren't yet packed, and it will only take a minute more (or maybe couple more) to pack in your valuables -- your pretty pinks and your vivacious crayons and your precious water-bottle. I would love for you to mime the songs which I play and tap your feet to the beats across the rivers and tree-layered roads, glittering with white markers. No Chhuti, neither you, nor I can add whatever-we-wish to those white marks. That is not where we doodle.
Thank you Chhuti. In the span of a paragraph, times have seemingly changed. Some people are just meant to have a spoonful of you, and be vitalised. While for some other you appetize. But for me, you are neither nourishment, nor indulgence. You are the very essence of living.
Come along,
K.
Times are bad Chhuti. Very bad, very unsettled. And very, very imposingly petty. It has engaged my involvement even without me willing to be a part of it. Times are such that there is this call for you from within. A call from the gut, and it believes that if you don't come along soon, I would rot. Yes, rot, not die. You are no longer just a means of wish-fulfillment, but you have become that fountain of love which keeps flowing and breathing life into me. And, now, the Chhuti-fountain through my veins that run is passionately deprived of you. In such circumstances, tell me Chhuti, how does one survive?
Come along, my bags aren't yet packed, and it will only take a minute more (or maybe couple more) to pack in your valuables -- your pretty pinks and your vivacious crayons and your precious water-bottle. I would love for you to mime the songs which I play and tap your feet to the beats across the rivers and tree-layered roads, glittering with white markers. No Chhuti, neither you, nor I can add whatever-we-wish to those white marks. That is not where we doodle.
Thank you Chhuti. In the span of a paragraph, times have seemingly changed. Some people are just meant to have a spoonful of you, and be vitalised. While for some other you appetize. But for me, you are neither nourishment, nor indulgence. You are the very essence of living.
Come along,
K.
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