the realization that the place that you are standing today, isnt where you wanted to be... All that you worked for, your whole life, all that you were, and were not, so that you could be someone at a later date - all that has come to naught, as you are not where you want to be.

That is what she felt as she took stock of her life. She was nearing the big 3-0 figure in a couple of years, and it struck her, that nothing was done. nothing that she had wanted to achieve, was achieved yet. she looked at her life, and it probably was just another life. a below average life, in a below average city with below average expectations.

The stranger (2)

it grew like the weeds and it blossomed like the deadly hyacinth.

it was both illicit and pure at the same time. it stank of betrayal, but had a musky frangrance of love.

They knew not, as to how this had happened. their lives went on endlessly. nothing was out of place. nothing was amiss.

Work, home, travel, friends, everything went on as usual. insurance monies were paid, interests recieved. groceries bought, and old newspapers sold.

A normal middle class life. filled with discussions about prices of gold and fuel, talk about new releases in the the theatres nearby. Of traffic snarls and of bitchy coworkers. of retirement plans and prices of real estate.

They dreamt middle class dreams, of a penthouse, of good education for their offspring, of multiple cars, and frequent flyer miles.

Yet, it grew. weedlike. the addiction. somewhere in that little corner of the being where the mind meets the heart, those few moments of drowsy wakefulness when sleep doesnt know if it has complete control, just as long as a heartbeat - he thought of her, and she, of him.

In the chaos of life, it found root and it grew. unsure of acknowledgement, fearing retribution, in the shelter of the forbidden and inhaling a memory of a kiss, it grew.

It wasnt love said he. it isnt love said she.

He had married his childhood sweetheart, and she had convinced herself that the lack of sorrow is happiness.

It wasnt love and they couldnt name it. they called it - it.

and it grew. the illicit offspring of undeserving parents, the shunned and the unnamed, the banned and the forgotten "it" grew. like the deadly hyacinth.