Morbidly thoughtful and disturbingly pensive, she reacted to my umpteenth attempt in coercing a response. "I am doing well, busy and headed nowhere or somewhere that will be an open free space or maybe not. I have a feeling nowhere is a good place too," she reported. "I will write to you again, soon. I am too crowded yet empty in my head and heart, to write anything. I want to talk, just don't know how to say whatever I want to talk about." She abruptly ended, "I am fine, mostly." "Do you think you could combine emotions with tortuous legal procedures and find inner peace?," I enquired. "Are you recklessly determined on deviously messing with me?," she asked, annoyingly. "Do you have a plan? Should I be concerned about you?" she continued. I perched uncomfortably on the cemented floor with my chin resting on my cupped palms. Intoxicated with sleep, I asked her "What's keeping you up at night lately ?" I never really knew what prompted our conversations. Her frail frame paced back and forth in an empty parking lot, equally depleted of strength. She had the most inquisitive face, angular in a way that she could pull off any fashion or style. She ritually applied some unknown unheard of lotion that she didn't give much credit to, smiling slightly. That was her usual practice, not necessarily lacking refinement. In fact, it was remarkably attractive in spite of its terrestrial practicality. Her square plebeian nose and v-shaped chin had a deeply disquieting effect on most. It had been 15 years since we had met. It had been 10 years since we had shared the same time zone. It had been 3 years since we had a heart-to-heart. Its not like we shared a state of connectedness by blood or marriage or adoption, but our relationship was like an instrumentality that connected our souls. Suddenly she started numbering, " 1) strange weight of emptiness ; 2) desire to be alone and get haunted by loneliness and 3) a certain level of comfort with the concept of death." That's how she spoke, in fragments, in disillusioned phrases, never due to lack of vocabulary in the English language or content but almost always because she had too much to say. She always seemed to master unique first world problems that surprisingly I resonated with. We showed our years now but still had a child's innocent stare. It's not like we lacked knowledge of evil but somehow we fixated on an ignorant hope, the hope that we would find freedom from our inner fears. "I want to focus on making new memories," I said. "Why is it so hard anyway?" I infuriated. "What is so hard? Art of making new memories?" she asked, sounding baffled at this point. "Don't sound so naive. You can read me better than anyone, " I interrupted, slightly frustrated with how the afternoon was going. "Well, you got me! I don't know the answer," she replied as she foiled against her background. We had been static and unmoved as our conversation blossomed into maturity. We were not the types that indulged in self pity and yet here we were, trying to discover each other's unquotable grief and sorrow, sitting in the heart of chaos unfolding our lives. We were neither young, nor old. Some would describe our age as the peak of youth. And, others would unceremoniously dump us in bins labeled "mid life crisis: unstable mental health." After almost 10 years, we were finally returning to life. As we watched the sun appear and disappear in the midst of the random drizzle, we were, literally and not metaphorically speaking, aching. We were sleep deprived beyond words and annoyed with the transportation system, story of which has no home in this conversation. Yet, believe it or not, we could breathe. We were breathing a fresh start, not canned or otherwise preserved, impertinent like children lecturing grown ups, free from impurities. I was learning to let go of expectation and disappointment and she was learning to take in peace and happiness. The not so chocolate flavored coffee that the bartender served me, tasted as undesirable as I thought it would. And, the unwanted interfering drizzle interrupted her touristy escapade. Both of us should've been annoyed with all these mosquitos buzzing in our ears. But, we smiled and found it easy to breathe. Not far from this minute lay dynamical system of bedlam, aka pandemonium. Yet, we felt relaxed and satisfied with our momentary present, drawing in new life and manifesting a strange full flavored spirit after having being corked for years. How did we get to this state? How could we re-create this ever again? How could we hold it in place and keep it flowing in our veins? The pendulum clicked and kept the tempo of the music around us alive. I continued to breathe in, this air of extreme optimism, expecting the best of all best in this possible world. To her, nothing seemed to be out of place. Nothing felt wrong, to either one of us. Every puzzle piece fit right where it should. They looked at each other with infectious energy. "Life was so easy when we followed that boy Varun around! How we would go crazy laughing! Someday, we shall have a great laugh again, together!" She said, assuringly, with her familiar and comforting voice that was always music to my ears. "The mountain we wish to climb doesn't own a watch, you know. It's not in a hurry to go anywhere. I am invisible, understand? Simply, because people refuse to see me, just like the mountain we wish to climb." Sometimes, she drifted off in metaphors and similes. I enjoyed her, like a kid in a candy store. Bubbles and beads, lip gloss and frills, sprinkles and sparkles. Our creative spirits joined in celebration of our re-Union. "Do you miss having children?," I changed topics though I wasn't sure of either of the topics I was switching between, neither was I sure of this transition subject. "Well, I don't miss what I don't have. Isn't that just self inflicted torture?" she replied, somewhat confidently. "You?" She never forgot to include me in the conversation even against all my attempts of excluding myself. "Not really. I always dreamed of becoming a mother. It was as if being a mother was this profession, a learned occupation requiring special education. Ever since I was 25, i thought that that was my calling. But, I am not a mother now. And I may not be one, after all. Who can fight their destiny." Some people, you cannot dismiss from your mind. Some, just cannot be buried no matter how hard you try. They command presence. Their shadow lingers by your side years after they're gone. Their smile, a ghostly apparition at midnight, is like an inseparable companion. Don't get me wrong. I have tried. I have tried to dissipate the animation and energy that these people furnished my life with, but failed. I am not going to name them. That's no longer of consequence because they don't exist anymore. I also won't humanize them by narrating specific stories that link them to individual memories that might trigger emotions I have successfully placed in a grave behind the Kremlin wall on Red Square. You get the image. I am not in contention with my self awareness. Nor am I emotionally suicidal today. I, merely, want to bring to your attention how people can still dominate your life after they have left you. They possess the power to influence your sub conscious, concealing you with a gentle facade. Perhaps you are analyzing me right now. But before you sit as a judge at my trial, I would encourage you to get to know me. I am one of those 'used to be' directed outward, marked by external realities kind of a personality who recently folded inwards with my organs invaginated. So as we all lose faith in humanity and its immense powers, I contend that I often wonder about this ballet of life. It is beautiful, with its intricate characters determined to show every movement, but what use is it? We surround ourselves with energies we can dance with, making no secret of our designs, merely to answer our immediate needs. And one day, unannounced, just like that, all our stock assets vaporize. We seek fossils to provide conformation of the evolutionary theory, all along clinging to someone or something on which our expectations are centered. What happens when we suddenly find ourselves standing alone, like a lone skier on the mountain? You must think I'm bizarre, wearing a crazy hat, and singing half baked ideas. But you and I both demand reform. We strive for an equality of distribution. So just entertain me and my theories of the natural world. Close your eyes and think about a person that's no longer in your life. Think about a specific instance or a day of sustained elation when you were in a state of altered consciousness. It's not the big things in life that march aggressively in our memories. It's the little things that excite the cognitive process of obtaining and storing knowledge. The walk back from college at night as we passed a graveyard; or the song he played for me at a party to make me smile; the weekend we were like pieces of pasted paper without a care in the world.