Thursday 5 March 2015

"Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude"

Weekly backlogs completed. Check.
Festival long weekend. Check.
Looking at the watch every five minutes. Check.
Humming cheesy songs and giggling. Check. 

The algorithm is going perfectly. The pillows drenched by tears for four months, the frustrations, the fights, the hopeless pining, are all meticulously brewing into an intoxicating concoction. Here I sit, nervously twitching at my ring, giving my finger weird bruises. My heart skips a beat or two every three seconds. I nervously hold my breath so as to check my erratic heartbeats. He's on his way. He's coming home, from far, far away. 

While I worry and stress about what I'll wear and how I'll look and what I'll talk to him about when I meet him for the first time after all this time, I take a break and laugh a little at myself. I've never had to worry about this stuff with him. I long to tousle his (oh so long!) hair, hold his head in my lap and blush like I'm 14 again. I long to wear my smile, the one that he loves, while I make him wait for me before our dates. I long to see those frantic messages that buzz on my cell phone every ten seconds when I'm late, and to see that face break into an all-forgiving smile when he sees me. I long for him to grab my hand silently when no one's looking. I long for all those little details of my life that had gone missing while we dueled with work and education and whatnot. 

The distance isn't going away. Its a week away. But that doesn't stop us from living it up now, right? I press my ears to hear his car zoom into the colony gates. I'm sure I can hear him unload his luggage and push the lift doors open. He's home.

"Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude,
hour that is mine from among them all!"

P.S: Neruda all the way.