If months like these pass like weeks, life will be over in a jiffy. And the idea of life is too confusing. I wish it was limited to the singular, but then we all are tiny specks in the universe, connected to each other in some obscure way which is too infinite for logic to properly explain. Coming back to where I have been for the last twenty two years, after a tiny stint of a few months elsewhere, makes me feel like I have come back to meet parts of my many lives that I have left in little corners of unknown streets, tiny memories stored in boxes full of wrappers and bus tickets, old school stockings and carols reminding of the Christmas pasts. And the constant feeling that words and emotions are often too inadequate to for the hearts bursting out with undefinable laughter, joys, sorrows, dreams and reminiscences. It sometimes seem like I talk like someone who's life has been stored in memories, and the future is only about recalling them. However, I am as expectant of the future as any eager mind is. But wherever I am, I wish to come back at times to collect my bits of lives stored and guarded in the discreet alleys of my city.