Such was the agony, then, as it is now, that I actually never had, nor have, a pen-friend. Today, I sit and think of the imaginations that kept me occupied. That I would write to you, a samurai-holding friend in Japan, for then I did not know it would be Tokyo, or to someone with golden hair in Sicily. How many had I written, those that remained unnamed, unposted? I hunted for that special name which would hold the romance of a distant land, of mile long dreams. I would look into magazines, and in doctors' journals, tv-serial credits and within myself as I stared into the wall.
Finally, having given up that I was not tailored to be blessed with adventure, I cooked many of you up. I would write to names I would want to. And on days when the sum would just not come to the correct answer, I would instead build a reply from you. Come to think of it, it was so much fun, trapping tall Parisian fragrances and Chinese roast duck smells -- getting replies from wherever I wanted, from whoever I wanted, getting to hear what I wished -- that I was a perfect pen-friend. Either I had a lot of time to waste, or I was really disinterested in my studies, for I miss those curious charms today.
You were Heidi's neighbour from the swiss fields, and Leonardo Di Caprio's personal assistant. You were even Ajay Jadeja's cousin. And all of you spoke to me so much about lives I could not even think of. As a matter of fact, about lives only I could think of. Slowly, the number of names decreased, like an algebric equation. As if it was logically destined to be.
You were no one, no where, yet, I missed not having you. I blessed myself with adventure and though it has been replaced by astute caution and pessimistic practicality, often times, such moments from the mess of memories spring a source of romance with the childhood innocence in which, faith was the first step to every blown bubble.
Even surprisingly so, on this day too, as pens have given way to the keyboard, as have the friends, I miss my pen-friends.
I miss myself.
Finally, having given up that I was not tailored to be blessed with adventure, I cooked many of you up. I would write to names I would want to. And on days when the sum would just not come to the correct answer, I would instead build a reply from you. Come to think of it, it was so much fun, trapping tall Parisian fragrances and Chinese roast duck smells -- getting replies from wherever I wanted, from whoever I wanted, getting to hear what I wished -- that I was a perfect pen-friend. Either I had a lot of time to waste, or I was really disinterested in my studies, for I miss those curious charms today.
You were Heidi's neighbour from the swiss fields, and Leonardo Di Caprio's personal assistant. You were even Ajay Jadeja's cousin. And all of you spoke to me so much about lives I could not even think of. As a matter of fact, about lives only I could think of. Slowly, the number of names decreased, like an algebric equation. As if it was logically destined to be.
You were no one, no where, yet, I missed not having you. I blessed myself with adventure and though it has been replaced by astute caution and pessimistic practicality, often times, such moments from the mess of memories spring a source of romance with the childhood innocence in which, faith was the first step to every blown bubble.
Even surprisingly so, on this day too, as pens have given way to the keyboard, as have the friends, I miss my pen-friends.
I miss myself.
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