Because I know that my heart beats for someone I am yet to meet...

Sometimes I dream of a tree. The tree is my life. One branch is the man I shall marry. And the leaves, my children. Another branch is my future as a writer. And each leaf is a story. Another branch is a glittering academic career. But as I sit there trying to choose, the leaves begin to turn brown. And blow away. Until the tree is absolutely bare. And then I open my eyes, anxious and petrified. It's autumn again. Sylvia Plath's words are pulsating through me. Her fears are my fears. And her uncertainty with life too I seem to have embraced today. And just like her, I feel the hope wilting away. I tell myself that whatever I choose is the right choice. I hope I can continue fooling myself forever.

It's windy. There is a lone tree in the middle of the field which is being rustled ruthlessly. The dejected leaves fall to the ground and the disappointed birds fly off high above. It's twilight and the dark branches are getting lost within the dark sky. And then there is that noise that the wind makes. The one that is intimidating and provoking in equal measures. The one that unsettles and torments with its disquiet. The one that refuses to leave my thoughts. The one which has ingrained itself into my subconscious mind. The one that keeps me awake at night.

I want to get on a bright red bicycle. The heavy metal ones with bicker baskets and round bells. I want to pull up my dress and tie up my hair and just cycle through the countryside. And I will keep pedaling till I leave the streets behind and the sunflower fields too are out of sight. And I won't stop even when I pass the lake. And I won't spare a glance to the ducks and baits. I will keep pedaling through the stress and strain and not rest for even a minute under the shade. I will keep going until nothing can keep up, nothing is left. No people, no memories, no thoughts and none of the doubts. And when I reach that place, I will stop. And then I will look up at the clear sky and I will try not to cry.

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. - Opening lines of The Catcher in the Rye

I have been carrying my little copy of The Catcher in the Rye with me wherever I go. A dark blue cover holding within it the most delightful character I have ever had the pleasure of reading. From the opening sentence to the characteristically cryptic line at the end, everything is enlightening and endearing. Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody. There is something about Holden. Something attractive, while also being repulsive. I want to get to know him but I want to maintain a distance. I want him to talk to me but I don't want to tell him anything about myself. But mostly, I just want to hug him.

The book reeks of reality. Of the truth that we are evading. Of everything we know to be right but never acknowledging it. Of teachers that touch you, inappropriately. And then there was the brother he lost. Death in the family. And a kid sister who is the only person he really just wants to spend time with and have a conversation with. Another elder brother who is being a prostitute to Hollywood by writing commercial stuff that Holden doesn't approve of. He preferred the short stories instead. Especially the one called The Secret Goldfish. It was a story about this little kid that won't let anybody look at his goldfish because he'd bought it with his own money. It kills him, to read that story.

Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. And this is the bit from the book that kills me. Every time.

My semester starts on the 23rd of this month. The course schedule was mailed to me a couple days back and every time I think of it, I can't help but smile to myself. Among other delightful courses, there is one that is labelled The magic of used books. And there is a 'field trip' to the London Book Fair. Sigh. Field trip makes me think of huge yellow buses and swirly colored candies. Five more days of home. I can't imagine the time when I won't  be waking up in my bed. Close the binds and shut the door, you won't need any friends anymore.

Dido is singing me my favorite song. On a loop. I apologize once again I'm not in love. But it's not as if I mind that your heart ain't exactly breaking. And I always thought that I would love to live by the sea, to travel the world alone and live more simply. I have no idea what's happened to that dream.

And I am trying not to feel maudlin about losing that dream. And losing you. And nothing I have is truly mine.