a revery.

I want to be with you. I want to be with you in a small, tidy village fifteen minutes away from the nearest town where we can catch the latest flicks once in a while. I want to live with you in a wooden cottage with a sprawling messy bed and ill-matched couches with bright tones and pastels painted on to them. I want to have breakfasts with you on the front porch, nothing but a juice and some bread and the world to view. I want a little pathway in front of our house that leads to the park and deeper into a forest where unknown dangers await. We can take a walk there on mornings we wake up a little adventurous. Maybe you can teach and I can write. And we will have a silly neighbor to gossip about on aimless evenings because we have nothing better to talk about. On Saturday nights we can dance to our favorite music and try to reminisce what it felt like to be young and in love. On Sundays we could take the kids out for a drive to the town and get ice cream and cheap brunch. And every other day you can scowl as I try out new recipes from Pinterest and TV shows that taste nothing like the pictures. You could end up cooking spicy Indian food and splash a mix of your favorite vegetables from a nearby organic farm we visit on Fridays and cover up my ill-fated recipes. I want to be with you on days when you wake up with a headache and I give you a massage and make it worst and you politely decline saying you feel better. On the days when you wake up with a smile on your face because you dreamt about heaven and angels and a world of posies. I will be with you even on the days when you turn your face away from me and I pack for a runaway to another planet, because love would always bring me back right next to your feet and our wooden floor. I want to create a new world with you where we can live based on what we are and not who we were. Where I will ask you everyday, “How are you?” and leave aside, “How were you?” A world where we are unknown but by us. Where we can share a connection that nobody has to talk about because they really don’t care.  We could start over everyday with aimless dreams and talk about how we will never reach our dreams because they never end. I will get us a mason jar with a hole at the lid where we can squeeze in small notes and coins proudly labeled ‘adventure’ to get us to our dream destinations. And then end up emptying it out when we run out of grocery money. I want to be with you when we are frail and disinterested about the world and life because body aches have taken over our walks and even the blossoms at the park next to our wooden cottage doesn’t really brighten the spirits in our being. I will be there for you when we have run out of reasons to live. We can count the days to the grave and plan about our epitaphs and correct each other’s pre-written eulogies. And on the day the heavens have declared as the last for your existence on earth and your breath is to be grasped by the one above, I will hold your hand and as we sit in silence, we will know that it was worth it. That love had prevailed.



a cola tale.


You meet on a sunny day in June, drink a cola on the sidewalk and click your footsteps in unison. A fairytale day or a movie set? The wind blows just perfect, the sun shines just enough. Walking next to you with a cola in hand is a smile that’s the warmth of a thousand winter fires in one, that envelops you with glee from the ice cold outsides. How’d you get so lucky?

Maybe your time had come ~ maybe the universe decided that this moment is it, what every step you’d taken from the day you took the first was meant to lead you to. This is where Marshall meets the mother. Your life is finally on the brink of the good stuff after 9 seasons of horrendous, crazy mishaps.

And when the first second rolls into hours and months pass by, to your great horror, you realize your souls meet perfectly. Wait, is that even possible? Your every thought aligns and conjuncts and preposits in perfect disharmony. A word uttered leads to a day’s conversation, to the nights hours passed in a wink.

But when months add to months, somewhere is a defect in your being for an antediluvian decision gone awry. And sometime around there, you’re not it anymore. You were never it. You were just an illusion painted on a sunny day in June with Cola drinks adding the perfect flavor and your footsteps clicking in unison to a sound of music that could only be heard, not composed.

And that is when you realize, you were just an illusion, a perfect cola memory created before you came to be.