Letting Go. And running back.

It's weird how we think we can change the course of the future by delving into history. Or in this case, the history of our instant messenger chats. Every time, you witness the crumbling of an important structure - a beam or a building block that you thought was responsible for holding together the temple of your life, you go back to the foundation stone. To check, if there were cracks there to begin with. How dare you lay cracked and perforated boulders to hold together the skyscrapers of your dream-house? You overlooked the fundamentals of construction because the promise of your dreams seemed more colorful and logical than anything on the horizon at that point of time.

Would you have even farmed these words the way they are framed had it not been for the supposed tragedy that beset you? Is it even a tragedy? Does it deserve a requiem? Weren't you aware of your own fallacy while you took to the skies majestically, completely in comprehension of the paper-plane life cycle that you embarked on? Does it take a fool so long to find he was foolish? Does he need to undergo the travails of a gold fish with a memory that lasts a fraction of a minute? Does he envelop himself in the endless loop of rapture and despair, fully aware that rapture ends in despair? Won't you run back in mock delight to embrace the opportunity when it presents itself all over again, with the dagger of deception concealed in its cloak? Will you cry out in pain? The one resulting from the preemptive understanding of deception? Or the one arising from desperation? Or the one rising from the ashes of your dashed hopes?

Go back to your chat transcripts. Go back to your ground zero. Go back to the place where the angels of your make-believe playhouse have fallen. Pick up the pieces of your dreams. Hope to salvage the situation by reading between lines. Hope to take things back to the way they were by examining each pause, each time stamp, each colon, each smiley, each pleasantry, each upper case admonition, each lower case expression of exasperation, each teary eyed repetition of a consonant that made up your name and underscored how much each alphabet meant with every subsequent repetition. Can you track the exact sentence that became the undoing of you? Can you track the exact phrase which set off the base charges of explosives that brought down your mansion? You do that and it won't change anything. Not until, you learn to let go.