... Of Burnt Memories

How much could a simple coffee mug mean?

It might mean the world to a person when gifted by a much-loved one. Then to pick up the courage to smash it on to the wall, watch the smithereens all around you, see it with your own eyes what the hands have done, and comprehend with the head that it is over, only because you wanted to equate the token with the wound the inflicter got to your heart. It is complicated, yet so simple.

Throw, break, burn, delete, forget.

Is there really a joy destruction brings? Synthetic fur burning, porcelains breaking, plastics crumbling, coloured papers turning pitch-dark, and most recently Ctrl+A Delete.

Do not get me wrong. This is not a person turning a pyromaniac or an anarchist or a barbarian. It is simple acceptance. Embracing the truth that a relationship is over, acceptance that it is time to move on, teaching self that the heart needs no more torture from a particular person.

Not everyone is there to stay with you all your days.

Hence burning memories become part and parcel of life. 

Of What It Could Not be

There's no word "regret" in my dictionary, I might boast, but I need to confess, I do get eaten up by it time and again. Time and again, the constant need to look back and sigh, of things that have been and things that could have been. Thirty-three years on the planet, and there are a few life's lessons that I have learnt. I intend to keep them handy, though there are times I fail miserably.
Now what prompted me to write this, is the urge... the usual one. But I promise this won't be a sob story.
Now, what would you do if the apple that fell on Mr. Newton's head (probably not the same apple, but any other apple) fell on yours? You curse the apple for its inability to find a better place to fall, you can curse it for the bad timing. Or as optimists say, thank heavens you were not sitting under a coconut tree.
Me? I would create a sorry figure for myself, slowly rub the bump on my head, throw the apple away with all my might so that it could also feel the hurt it caused me, and then mumble "Why me?", "Why now?".  Immature and illogical, you might say! But well, that is me. Oh, it doesn't end there. And then, I'd probably refuse to go near any apple tree for a long time until the memory of the bump clears off from the little grey cells inside my head.
Yes, there have been many apple trees, many fallen apples and the crimson bumps, thanks to the noodle brain. Surely each apple has taught me one lesson or the other.
Well, my latest apple has taught me that I need to keep my arm's distance with the apple tree. Respect its space, do not chide it for its lack of focus, accept it has a mind of its own, and let it fall anywhere it deems fit. While I mind my distance and close my sometimes-ignorant-of-when-to-open mouth of mine shut and leave the apple to do its job of falling down on anybody's head or ruining itself by shattering to smithereens.
Goodbye apple, and to all the other apples around... you are on your own! ... until this bump heals, of course!