windy nights, lonesome eyes, longwinded phone conversations with a stranger, idling about in a queen sized bed, a wistful look in the eyes that gaze far and beyond, eyes that have known estrangement in one too many ways, restless nights when the self feels at odds with the world, the fear of not being known, the fear of being eroded away slowly, the slow carousel of emotions that are caused by a mere accidental wrong number, a stirring within the self, to register, to make someone know you, to be known, to be surmised, understood, cracked open like a forgotten jar of pickles from the back of the almirah, a strange reckoning, the constant guessing and second guessing, looking into the mirror, talking till the break of dawn, talking while trying to sleep, when sleep is on a constant run, a strange calling from inside, and allowing oneself to whir into the ethereal, unseen within the self, living inside a mansion, a castle that is unforgiving of its previous members, dismembering yourself of all the words you know, the sudden spat of rain, the snatches of phone conversations, someones voice that feels like its calling you from the beyond, the longing to reach out for the forlorn, the foreboding, the constant effort to try to piece together your own fragments with the help of this stranger, nights when dark dreams haunt you in an unsuspecting, unending chain of nightmares, the intermittent calling, the leaving, vanishing, a state of languor, suspension of the routine coming from behind the lack of routine, an emptiness chasing you, you chasing it away by making small talk with someone, even a plant, a broken twig, some solitary raindrops, and the stillness of it all — breaking you, mending you, disjointing you, undoing all of you, while all you want is to be wound back, wont to being alone, the wanton loneliness creeps at you like a new tendril you have taken a liking to, when you dont need the cliches, the restrained emotions call you, when expression lies in the act of reaching out.