"I wonder what will become of us, say seven years from now?"
Seven years down the lane, today, as I sit at the exact place, where we had begun with the whole shebang new in our life, I await your arrival. I anticipate your smile and that energy that had once upon a time forced me pull me out of something I was held in for epochs. I remember sitting there with you. An empty coffee mug filled with enormous vanity for having you by my side. The verandah is so unembellished without you. But more than anything, your absence in itself makes everything as hollow as you are right now.
Back then, I had a story to tell you. My story. My story of obligatory struggle to make it through my intermediate, my struggle with my dreams to become a researching psychologist and my struggle to influence my family's decision to let me pursue my dreams. Back then, I was a conqueror and believe me I so wanted you to be with me. Back then I was a fighter, because you were with me. And now? Even as you are with me, you are barely with me. You hardly seek my consent and my command over anything that you intend to take over. Isn't that like what one's self has always wanted to do.
Dear reader, your self? It is mightier than anybody else on earth's face. Seven years back then, I had decided to make it into a deal with my self. And now as I sit here unaccompanied sipping a good amount of coffee from the same mug, I know how unfilled I am from within. My self is annoyed, for I had to deviate and I did, when it wanted me to fight, to struggle, to tell that I was not okay when I was not all right with my med course. This night, I am here with a bottle of wine in my hand, clasping it as if it was my self's hand and with the other I hold a coffee mug, waiting for its presence, I remorse the very moment I refused to rebel. This night, I have achieved somebody else's dream of becoming a psychiatrist, but what about my and my self's delusion?