It's A Four Walled Structure Standing Tall, And Unpainted. I Have A Marker In My Hand, And Write Each

It's a four walled structure standing tall, and unpainted. I have a marker in my hand, and write each and every name that enters through that single door. Some names, big, highlighted, underlined. Some names, small, insignificant and dull. Each name though makes its place on the walls. But it is a canvas for the name, not the home to name bearers. It is my place to grow, with my walls covered with influences from a variety, not their overwhelming presence inside.

Who do I miss?

A person, place, hobby or environment? Or do I miss those shades of me, that I could never achieve. The traits I always wanted to inculcate, but my inner self always remained immune to. The traits that I still aspire to have, but I know my heart and mind will never align to accept and be the person that I find ideal. I will always be a crooked version of my imagination of myself. I miss the person I longed to be. I miss the person I'd never be.

Do I hate myself for what I turned out to be? No. None of us do.

Sometimes the greatest gift we can give ourselves is a little bit of understanding. The world is too judgemental and the least we can do for ourselves is to be a little easier on us. Let's understand that every days ends with a different rate of productivity, and altogether different vibe. It is too difficult to be perfect in such a competitive world each day. Let us rather try best to feel perfect, with what we managed to do, at the end of the day. Even if it was merely breathing. Because the place we live in, even simply living through the day constitutes success.

We'd fight alot,

but we never remembered later what we fought for.

I feel it is beautiful how the content wasn't important,

but only how it made us feel.

We all, at some point of time, have this hard urge to be understood right, and perceived correctly. We are striving hard each day to be understood. Yet, someday, we shall abandon all our arms and efforts and get settled with the fact that even the best of men, have been explained in million ways. And probably not one of those million explains who they actually were.

Relationships, all kinds, have developed a tendency that the people in it, drop the responsibility of their own happiness in the hands of the other one. They rely too much on what the other one will do for them, and not what they do for themselves. I feel it is highly foolish to expect these associations to enrich our lives, when we ourselves have stopped doing so.