Scatters

You give it all away. Times pass, winds change, people alter their course. You chuck away the pieces of yourself here and there. Unfettered from any inhibitions, they bolt away. You don’t even remember what you’ve lost and what was snatched away from you. You can hardly fathom whether those fragments were complete in itself or were their cries waiting to be heard. So busy you were in your world of drama that you didn’t even look back at the scattered you. You were too occupied to bid farewell to your own varied selves. You probably don’t even remember how crucial some of those pieces were.

They said you were too naïve for the brutal world, so you threw your innocence away. Then, they told you to start acting like an adult, so you got rid of the carefree in you. Then, they came for your appearance, masks after masks you bought for yourself; whether the child in you could afford further liabilities or not, you had no time to spare a thought about yourself. Responsibilities after responsibilities, you burdened yourself with. You started wearing up, your body gave up, and you still didn’t pause.

Then, came the silence, dark and ferocious it appeared to you. And that’s when you finally heard a song, your song. A song that all the fractions of your being were playing for all those seasons you were wilting away. But you had no time to pause the noise that was stopping you to hear the melody of your being. So accustomed you’ve now become to the noise that anything soulful petrifies you. You fear your own song. So adulterated your self has now become that a tinge of purity puts you into despair.

All those pieces you chose to throw away, watched you evolve into the reality you now are. They contain all the fragments of your self, incomplete, hence they took the shape of memories. You dropped them away at the roadside, but how could your memories leave you behind? You are all they have. Not always do you make memories, sometimes, the memories make you too.

Not always do you have a right to discard parts of your own being. Sometimes, your fragments can obligate you too, to take care of them and their half written stories. The past feels fatigued too, of being at one place for too long. Perhaps, all things need fresh air to sustain.