Introduction
Most of what I remember is an obscured and unfocused nook and alley, vaguely indistinct.
For the longest time, I had been undeviatingly accurate and invariably precise about the facade of relationships.
There are days when I wake up to the insistent buzz of the quickly spread alarm and toss of my phone and slap the snooze button, squinting at my iridescent hands.
Early departure hardly resonates with the alarm pulsing through my knotted skin so I let mornings dawn with the fluff of my pillows.
As I move my thumb in motion to gather the fragments and remnants from where I marked my footprints the last time, I slash my memory through a self explanatory era of teenage relationships and assertion of my presence in the vacuum of the unknown, yet in the magnanimity corridor of familiarity.
For most parts of it, I'd like to believe that I had subjected myself to the vividly woven orchestra of emotions to shield my authenticity from the intruding art of acceptance and letting go. So I'd consistently drape myself in the middle, despite floating and sinking in the ice glided oceans; resorting to an inscrutable weight of an age which is so tender at mathematics but simultaneously, parables of relationships would always stir and blend the crevices of teenage, crippling the beginning but sluggishly, stitching my furrows into a robustness of memories.
At this juncture, I'd like to pull out the frame that revolves around an abstract of indelible and ineradicable memories, constantly reminding me how people, places and things can be pliable on multiple planes, but permanency only sprouts from the meandering course of an impending tomorrow, beheading an uncertainty but somewhere along the line, inevitability.
Unveiling my qualms rested in the reliable saga of teenage, I've seen my fingers flapping against the oscillations of life, or an otherwise a barricade ordinarily and seemingly plastered to evolve me as an individual.
How do you find a closure to an already ended conversation?
If love gets lost in an alien footpath of your residence and knock at your door in the middle of a night, will you pocket it again like a priceless penny?
Teenage is a wanderlust, who loves to put its comfy shoes on and travel, tapping the reckless pavement of relationships.
Or is it a vacuous speculation of habitual answers to your questions, validating your invincibility in joy coming from unlikeliest of a nook and an alley, maybe from a tingle of your swirling alarm, without flinching, only to let you know that an early departure is really needed to be blanketed by your embrace and set forth yourself at a jagged yet as flat as a pancake road of transfiguration?
