Reader, I'm here because I want someone to talk to. It's ironic isn't it, how doomed this conversation is, to being one sided. I have dozens of friends, several close ones, yet I turn to this blog, this white and blue somewhat impersonal space, whenever I feel the need to be real, to confess, even if it be in half truths and metaphors.
Whenever I enter into a conversation, Reader, I feel a need to define its scope in advance. Even if it is with my closest friends, I memorize topics we might converse on in advance, so that we may never be at a loss. Silence is frightening. The same isn't quite true for me and you, I think, though I'm often scared of what all I reveal here. I came here, not knowing what to say, so I type to fill the emptiness. I've been having a tough few days of it and I'm tired of telling myself that my problems are trivial compared to those others face. My problems are my own and of paramount importance to me, if to no one else. If that makes me selfish then so be it, I'll get over it soon enough. I'm tired of talking of my problems now though, fascinating as the topic is.
Let's talk of the weather instead then, shall we? That's a safe topic. It's rainy here in Mumbai, wet and humid and green. I wonder if it's just as rainy in Hyderabad. I wonder if Panda is cold, if his fur is silvery with raindrops. I love the smell of wet dog. I would rub him vigorously with his towel at the faintest sign of dampness and he would do his best to chew the towel to bits in the meantime. It was a little game we played. I hope he's dry right now, I don't want him catching cold. I miss him, Reader. I miss him terribly.