"I hate her, love her and miss her at the same time. Do you know how dreadful that is?"

"No, I don't."

"HEAVENLY HINTS - A happy month on the whole - with you, the wise last sign, firmly realising there’s no point fretting. Around the 3rd-4th, you’ll realise someone isn’t really worth bothering with – it’s a relief to you to know this in your own mind ( you’re often so tolerant, giving people the benefit of the doubt). Around the 5th – 8th, you may be pleasantly surprised by a friend’s actions. There may be niggling money worries this month, but also something specially pleasant connected with your finances."

W.O.W. (Double that.)

My parents told me the most bizzare lies when I was young.

One of them was the story of perseverance. Mom always told me that if you tried hard enough to attain something, you would get it. Well, first she told me that if I wanted it from the bottom of my heart, I would get it. Through time and a lot of whiplashes, I figured that really wasn't the case. Hence, I moved on to step two.

Work hard and you'll get what you want.

Through time and a lot more whiplashes(painful ones), I learnt that true wisdom lies not in blindly ploughing and hoping it will happen, but to have the humility to accept that sometimes, it won't. You can be smart or handsome and sometimes both and yet, it won't work out. Yea, you. That's right. Now the humility part.

That's the bitch.

Alright I might have a problem accepting some things might not work out. But the pursuit is so (bitter)sweet that I cannot help but stay addicted. Soon the object of pursuit becomes nothing more than a reason for the pursuit, the pursuit becoming that bad nicotine habit. I liked it. I was a dog chasing my tail because it was better than sleeping in the sun for the rest of the day.

Now I seem to be moving on from the spot where circles are fun. Circles can get to you after a point of time. A room without corners is for the insanely numb. I need corners, they are comforting spaces. They are excuses for things you can't let go anyway. A constant loop is the gateway to madness. Really.

And I'm trying to break it, even though the road beyond it may be lonely. There are things you do that you can never explain, but the head knows the reason and soon enough, your body accepts.

I need to ask my Mom if there was a step three to any of it at all.

Or is it step six?

Words that are spoken are words that are freed.

They are lifted from cages, set free from pages, they fly around till gravity gets them to settle in clusters. And of course, an army of opposing ones would mostly mean war or more conversely, lust.

Which I'm perfectly fine with.

But words are animals and we're that annoying species that sits on top of the food chain. Some need to be nurtured, some can be kept as pets, while most need their own sanctuaries. Some need salt pits, the others survive on sharp tongues. They can hurt if intimidated, they can rip you apart because they don't know how else to kill. Words kill. No, not in the Aretha-Franklin-killing-me-softly way but more ripping-apart-bear-maul way. Yes, they hurt physically. Ask me about my headaches.

And I hate to think that the one person who matters the most has been hurt by my words.

Lately, we've been killing each other in bits, pieces dying out like nebulas, turned inside out and upside down. It's quite spectacular if someone's watching. This war of light and fire, spite and momentary hatred; we are killing each other. It is a cancer of words, of language, of communication. There are times that you cannot command the nicer words to come back, but words are powerful and they never fade. There are quotebooks in everyone's heads and they never perish. Little yellow mind diaries... don't ask me why they're yellow. It's a movie thing, given a choice between green goo and yellow slimy pages, I prefer yellow pages.

A cancer in the head propelled by the heart.

Words, I fear them these days. I'm afraid that what I write now might haunt me tomorrow. I see little white gowned thoughts with big black mouths and pointed ears to hear the scared ones in my head. Do animals believe in the supernatural?

Do words have a supernatural plane?

I think that is the explanation, a parallel world with silver-jet-propelled karma ready to be shot at you with words as shrapnel when the Bearded Man is bored on a Sunday. But there is only so much I possess and most of them are made of words and forgotten promises. That's almost all of what I possess. The rest are the pages and data bits that hold them. The words and their crutch.

I wish they don't kill us one of these days, these words that you and I have been hurling at each other.

I love you way too much for that.

There are things I can't tell you.

Not in these spaces that are alloted so meticulously. There are rules here, sharp lines that give me papercuts when I try to tread them. No, not here where emotion is forbidden. We cannot afford it, the poor man's bread. You work as a puzzle, some pieces fit and some don't. This square world is a misfit for us.

There are things you won't tell me, I would love to think that you have reasons at all. We live in such a short world that the edge finds us faster than we can blink. I cannot live in a world that runs on geometry. I cannot calculate word limits and boundaries for the heart when we talk. Really. It tires me.

But as history goes (and in the honour of history wanting to repeat itself), I understand when you run far from saying what you really want to. But you need to understand too, I'm not going to stick around for words that I have to dig out, words that I have to beg and plead to hear, words that I have to dream about and forget because you will never find the courage to say them. I'm not going to stick around for mediocrity. I want the complete turmoil of knowing someone. Not like this. Not controlled language and legalized pieces.

So one day, when you find the courage to get over yourself, I hope we can know each other again the way we used to. Probably then, I'll tell you all the things I can't tell you now.

I visited our salty old house today. Do you remember?

She's gone thin, her floorboards have worn out. Her fingers are fragile and the city's growing around her. This massive strong willed city is eating into her. I put a piece of wood into my pocket as I walked out. She didn't let me take much, all houses grow possessive with age. Our couch talks no more, some say it was the ghosts.

You know I don't believe in ghosts.

They'll say anything about a memory that doesn't talk back. The steps are as young as ever though. They still trot, laugh and sigh. They asked me to tell you that they'll always love you. Steps and staircases. You know how they lie.

I didn't go upstairs though, I couldn't summon the courage to. Passion is a dangerous place to revisit. She never dies; this city might eat our house up but Passion, she'll swim through the concrete and invade unsuspecting spaces long after we're gone. She growled. I presume she meant to send her love too.

Our salty old house and the things who make her. They send their love.