(About home and going into the final year.)
This one is going to be a simple blog post. Written while hopping between airports from one home to another home. Exaggerated because of the overwhelming emotions and paying excessive extra baggage. And somber because of the catch-them-if-you-can blissful moments.
Home is healing. Not that band-aid kind of healing. Band aid just helps you keep it together for the time being. Home is like this super fast time machine kind of a healer. Where time slows down. You can be as ugly as you want (and enjoy it). Your childhood room shields you from the rest of the world, as you take your own time to decide, when it is time.
I managed to fit in a few days there. Before the crazy begins here. A crazy called the final year. One last time? One last time I have to go back and clean by room of the cobwebs of three months and locate my bicycle under a pile of metal junk. And one last time for so many others which I really don’t wanna start counting.
When I walked in as a facchi, fourth year wale seniors, seemed to have attained this level of enlightenment. I wasn’t really sure what it was, but I was really sure they had it all sorted. They knew exactly how to budge right in and get that core one wala aloo paratha. And now I am one of them. Huh?
On that existentially confusing note,
I will try and keep up with my weekly blog, one last time out of many last times. :)