Hopeless patterns

There was a pattern,

always a pattern

In the books read, recent playlists played,

Colors of weather and unwritten letters,

Badly scribbled notes under the mattress of the bed.

There was a pattern in the first said words of that broken conversation—if only you knew

Those tucked away pictures hidden from the world,

And tickets that were never used to fly 7000 miles away.

There was a shameless pattern in all the words unsaid, all the endeavors to make you break away

In the first days when seasons changed—the leaves falling off or turning green,

There were patterns in the first fall of snow and my perfect summer dream,

There were patterns in the waves of the ocean that connected lands in between.

There were perfect patterns in the winds that blew; signs if only you knew.

But oh well, never mind

Why did it matter?

When our minds were always a mess, a hopeless clatter.



History is bizarre. When you start reading it, you don’t understand a word- since it’s never the beginning. Even if you think you started from the beginning, it never is. The beginning has its own history, and so it takes you long to identify the real beginning of history. But when you do, it begins to unfold itself, like an untold tale. It unveils things that you know and things that you don’t. And then it connects to make sense for you. And slowly and gradually, you don’t even realise and you become one of the characters of history. Reading, rereading, investigating, connecting, going back and forth to make sense, until it takes you along with itself—something you came to know about, you became a part of it; so much so that you loved it and it became your life.