I want to write you a letter and ask you what is the color of sky above you, is it crimson blue or can you see streaks of dark clouds ready to move in with cavalry of thundering ones. The letter would ask you if the birds are happy there and chirp like they should and request you to find time to walk out to wave at the Moon, stuck in the solitary confinement of gaseous void. Amid the textual inquery of the sky and land, I would let you know what a dreary evenings I endure with all the other such lengthily written but unsent letters lying next to me.
How do I tell them, what a tragic world it is where words and letters like emotions are bound to obey the draconian law of truth. But like each written heartfelt conversation, this one would too end with still here, still yours.
Ask me again what love is and I’ll probably lie about it, with a poetry revolving around the moon and the stars, not wanting to scare you with the truth. Love, my darlin, is nothing but the ache that makes your heart hurt and beat at the same damn time…
Let’s talk about something, nothing, everything. Let’s talk. The pain, the denial, the lost game, the death of a will. Let’s talk about how we are not what we were and we didn’t even know when we changed. The hurt that is invisible and odourless. Let’s talk about the existence of cold black hearts with red color and soft warm skin. The failure and murder of a dream, let’s talk about what we want but won’t fight for.
I was tired &, as I came home, I fell on the bed and started playing with the TV remote. Browsing through movie channels, I found myself watching #girlinterrupted from somewhere in middle and I thought, clearly I was hit my 90s nostalgia, how we don’t have such cult movies anymore. How every movie now is about a remake of a good book or a superhero series continuation or just something that we won’t remember after few weeks or months.
I started missing 90s, my life back then, the feeling of discovering romcoms and flicks staring Winona Ryder or Meg Ryan or Jodie Foster, the adventure of watching The Mask over and over again, sniffing when Richard Gere scales the ladder with a bouquet of flowers in his mouth for Julia Roberts.
Maybe, just maybe, it’s not the movies of then and movies of now but the lingering memories of a life that was when I was busy falling for the cinematic classics.
Excuse the nostalgia of a girl who wish she could go back and rediscover the joy of watching #youvegotmail for the very first time.