Sycamore

She stares outside. She stares at a patch of road. Criss-crossed tiles. Laid by someone. She was always a sucker for roads. She could stare at them from the windows for hours, long winding ones, trees on both sides. 'Roads are like people, they have personalities'. She is deep in thought, in the thoughts she likes the best. The ones where she looks at the things before her and just drifts away. Its never about someone, its always about the feeling of being alive. Peace they call it.

Lately she has been drinking a lot. Its quite funny. Before, she used to drink and she used to go completely crazy, now she drinks and she becomes someone she used to be. She becomes a person who does not look for a listener. She has stopped looking for a listener. May be thats the key to happiness. She has stopped feeling that ' there is something missing' feeling. Sometimes it freaks her out. She was born with that feeling, everywhere there was a yearning for something, she was waiting for something. Now she just drifts, now she deosnt look for someone to speak to, she doesnt look for anything. She just wants peace, and she feels it.

She loves melancholy. She is scared of too much happiness. Black tells her 'U love being vague na. You speak of something vague and your eyes lit up'. She loves being dreamy. It worried her once. The pull was never strong for her. She just put her hands round the vine and they vanished. She could always switch off and on. It was just too easy for her since the day she dreamt of the lake. She never really took anything seriously. She yearned to be a bystander on the periphery. May be she loved herself too much.May be she loved the world too much.

The moment lasted a second... the phone rang.