Yellow Post-its

Can you still, my dear, in your possession? Among the souvenirs of your travels to distant countries, of which the textbooks are happy days when you went to the sacred portals of the engineering college, the cassettes, whose covers were left behind after one of these bacchanalian sessions in the hostel, the photos of classmates, whose names you can not remember? Or is it hidden in the darkness, the sight of the book along with the purchase, but never read, the gift you never found a use, and the letters that you never finished or sent. I can still here in the city, in the house that you have never visited, in the kitchen, where my imaginary conversations with you. It is here also, if I am not, because I go now, so that the light on and music playing, so I can return home to the illusion of the company.hair straighteners I'm probably better now. Without secrets to my parents. Without someone who is between me and my friends, me and my hobbies, me and my work, me and my sensible, understandable, utilitarian life. The life that I always tried not to hold, in line with the expectations that I continue to try not to hold to my own. It's not that I always feel like this, sometimes I long for the days on which both tears and laughter came easily. This simple and quick transitions from ecstasy to despair. When a compliment could clock my mind occupied at the end and a harsh word could be like a pin-prick the same skin that appears dry and insensitive. Like probably millions around the world, I see outside the window of a crowded bus, lost in my own thoughts and wonder how it could happen to me. I was not to be different from the rest? Not for the silly schoolgirl infatuation with the football captain or the fascination with the good for nothing,GHD pot-smoking would-be poets. Our friendship was a mature, committed to more. How can I feel PANG envy when you lent a helping hand to another girl, when you talked about someone who is far away and the married, if you were so into the book that you will not notice that we are never the whole day? When we decided that it is too long and that we meet, I carefully started to adopt a package for you. A small poem book that you've always wanted but never found an old photograph and a bar of chocolate for us to share. What would I wear and what we talk about? The package is still in my drawer waiting for the phone to ring again. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon, when we sat in my small room of the hostel, to discuss capitalism and campus gossip with the same passion. When it seemed as if these talks could last forever, chi hair straightenersand we would always back them. When Joni Mitchell sang "California" seven times to the idea of continuous play before we get out of. Then suddenly one day we were looking for each other. They were always somewhere else, doing something else and strangely enough so was I. The new people I met on the trip and the junior man who loved the same movies I do. The girl next door, the math lessons from you. My room was almost always locked and it was no different. We have discovered, seemed a world away from us suddenly. The tragedy was, we had also the world that we had lost. Then came the rescue operation. The loud fights in the hostel wing, the long silence and desperate angry notes. Frustration, anxiety and love reveals itself in the ugliest ways. Then apathy, complacency and resignation. Peaceful, factual discussion of how we could remain friends. The decision that we always let the other know when we would be in order. That's when I made this yellow post-its on the door. The yellow post-its, by the time I came back would have your coordinates, which I never used. If we all of them now, they would tell this story much better than I do now. Back at home, I continue from this post-its on this day, in the hope that someone writes their whereabouts to them as well.