The unbuilt tombstones

Tombstones - Erected over the grave, that which preserves the memory of the deceased. But no tombstone is being made here, today. The loath, the detest, is too hard to fathom, to forgive. People here are about and moving. All around me, movement, hasty movement, that I shift my head from this side to that, to be aware. People, my guardian angels, move about, setting things right. Cutting down some strands. Tugging at certain loose ends. Tightening some others. Purging off the rest.

And then, they set to work - real work. Ascertaining that no tombstones are made. That no eulogies are sung. That a memory is being destroyed. In a vain hope to secure me inside a bastion of solace. Checking and rechecking that nothing is left, not even the traces. Not even the ashes to cry over. And I look on, helpless. I had indeed seen the end, before it began. But I had not seen it coming this way. Nor did I expect this deletion. It came abruptly, without knowing, all of a sudden, an emptiness scaring me. And I get crippled along with these little things that are destructed. A part of me taken and send away. Numbed, I simply hang on, by the side.

Your angels - the only other players in the game - acting as deleters. I wish I could delete too, do it myself, just like pressing a button. Twang. Gone, forever. Shift + Del , may be? A photo gone from the wall. A picture card presented, gone. One b'day clue, from all the rest, gone. Precious memories captured, photos, gone from my PC. Into oblivion. Into a dark abyss. Thrown with all mighty force, by the precious hearts that caress mine.

Should I have cared? Should i have worried? Did i want to cherish, and keep safe? Did i even have to notice? No. But mind, is a terrible player. It defeats you, when you are least concerned, when you loose the hold. It takes a jump, in a swift stroke and looks back. And you lose yourself. Is my angst unjustified? Am I being senseless? Did I not deserve the comfort of a talisman?

And I realise, with searing pain, that blood gashes out in a stream from the dreadful wound. At the most uncalled for moments. And i think, I wanted them all. To caress. Pixels of a past that existed. Resting now in a morgue. Sent to the place that was worthy of them ? But, here waits for me, the time that is gone, now nothing more than a strange eternity of nothingness. I stare. I squint hard. But there is nothing to see. Nothing to be felt. So I wish ; Before giving me the cure, before erasing my colour palettes, I wish they had asked me. Once. Only one time, before tampering with them. They were mine - my mind and soul, wholly mine. Memory of a life that could have been. A time that deep inside, even for the most diminutive part, I, knowingly or unknowingly cherished. And now, I am glassy eyed, staring blankly, seeing nothing. I have just been obliviated.


Then again, listening to the reflections of my ambivalent mind, I get undecided. When a minute's agony is turned into spite at the very next,I wonder, can it be cured by removing a handful of reminiscence. What if I needed them to be strong? Or was it, more unasked for omissions that I yearned for to recover? Which ever way it be, there is a reprieve, of what still persists. The thin strands of memoirs that intricately wove around my brain cells. I still have them. If I needed them to relish. Or may be I would want them to perish. And then, again I have my angels to look upto, to do it for me. Sweetly and swiftly.


May be I need a escapade. A merry, cheerful adventure. A funny thing to do. An end to wait for. Desire. Hope. May be erasing was good. And that, Only time will prove.