Untitled One

Today is the last day of my leave.
The leave I had taken from my job. From myself.
It has been a month long leave. From November 7 to December 8. Today, it has reached its end.
Today is the day I sit with myself.
Today is the day I decide what I am to do.
Twenty years ago I had given up writing. Had burnt my diaries. Had deleted pages already typed in computer. Had promised never to write again.
Twenty long years have passed and perhaps twenty more would go too, if on a spur of the moment I had not taken up writing again!
Why did I do it?
I shall never know.
What I know is that the one who talks of love and fate and the one who passes orders sealing the fate of large business houses are not the same.
One a sharp, mature person who has been the strongest tree in the forest, giving shades and shelter all these years.
The other a young soul, passionate and vibrant, living only in the fleeting moment and changing form in the other.
My alter ego.
The one who writes and paints. The one who spins the threads of reality and fiction to weave them into beautiful tales of love and loss. The one who looks for her fated soul mate through the sands of time encased in the never-changing hour-glass of life.
When I started to write again I released her from the shackles of years of experience and maturity. And she started to play havoc with my sanity, my mature self.
I was not me anymore. It was she who stared at me through the mirror. Her mischievous smile, her twinkling eyes...
I was extremely ill. I took a long leave. I had to face her, had to see who wins.
And she went on with her wild child's play. She wrote. She painted. She sought love.
She broke herself and re-made herself whatever way she wanted.
I could not stop her from weaving real people into her threads of imagination. In the process, she antagonized people.
I cannot write anymore. For, I cannot let her go on. Cannot let her turning my life into an imaginary thread of love and hatred.
Today is the day I sit with her.
Today is the day I seal her away.
For, I cannot allow her to come back to your streets again and again; to torment you with her morbid attachment.
I cannot allow her to eat away my sanity and reason.
Today I have tried to write without her. It failed miserably.
She is my red circle of fate, separating me from my real world. I must let her go.
Inside me, she is crying. I will let her cry herself into sleep.
Let me end by quoting my favourite poem: