[ Free writing ]

 Once upon a time, I still dreamt.

Hoped with wide eyed wonder, of good things, better things. Saved the said dreams in a small corner of my being, pressed in the leaves of memory, stacked neatly - within my reach, to be retrieved at leisure, to be cherished, doted over.

I dreamt of being on my own. As I liked to call it "ek insaan ki chhoti si grihasti". I dreamt of a place of my own, that was flooded with sunlight every morning. There were to be no dull grey days. It was a dream, I didn't account for winters. All I had to care about was me and my pet plant in the balcony - I didn't account for loneliness either. That the plant might need company. I was to feed it left over tea leaves from my morning chai. I didn't account for what plant it would be and if it needed acidic soil. It was a dream.

The balcony had the view of the city. It's weird because I'm not really fond of all the concrete that houses cities. I had other dreams where I lived in the hills. I leave those for another day. The view of the city came with crisp morning air. I failed to account for pollution. It was a dream.

With my morning tea, my pet plant, the crisp morning air - I felt enough. Throw in a bean bag too maybe, I wouldn't want to stand for that long. It was a dream, it was all that mattered.

I didn't account for how my then (and current) broke self would keep a place of her own in a city, if I would find pockets of leisure time to marvel at the view, if I wouldn't be caught up in the 9 to 5 drudgery. I didn't account for my loneliness, how I sometimes doubt that I might be afraid of empty spaces and that is probably why I keep my surroundings a little messed up, a little unorganised and how almost every day the first thing I do, half conscious, when I wake up is to reach for my phone and look for signs that I'm still needed.

It was a dream.