Drift or change?

An year, almost, a period of blandness, conflicting thoughts, varied opinions and an incomplete soul, on the look out for that strange bit of inspiration, to feel gnarl about writing. I keep coaxing myself to believe it's not a change, but a drift, from the limbo I created for myself back in the winter. But then the muse of escapism from reality surmounts, one which engulfs the brain into a pool of thoughts of what happened, what did not, of perceptions, expectations, success and failures.

Its ironical how in present, we invent a different future for ourselves, and a different past for others. 

However bleak the memory becomes, we never fail to glorify our clover and others erratum. What one remembers isn't what one has actually witnessed. Images blur, words become muddy and memories fade into oblivion. The grand things, become smaller, and eventually mask the scenario, which ones meant something. Sometimes, the version remains engraved, in hope of others mistakes to be taken note of, guilt to be subsided and apologies to be granted. Ofcourse, by you, not for you. What path does one take then? Pretence? Indifference? Blame? Or simple silence?

As she glided past the buildings, shops, jammed streets, the unknown yet familiar faces, she drowned herself into a strange state of nostalgia to a time when life felt complete running after the red lighted ice cream peddler, when the biggest worry seemed in defying elders to step out of the premises to walk secretively up till the temple, in the sense of experiencing freedom and when happiness held its meaning in the purest of form. How much had changed in these ten years, she wondered. All those empty roads which gave her a jitter to cross as dusk drew in, she wandered through aimlessly now amidst the crowd of people and endless conversations, in the vexation to return home from the hectic path she had chosen to embark her journey upon. The little crowded bazaar, which once glittered and gleamed in mystification, now proved to be an obstruction altogether. The place she remembered so dearly, held a denial in her practical mind, which either drifted or changed from those little whims and fancies of life.

She feared her life wouldn't turn out to be like that in literature, not much of a guessing game that she fancied it to be, or a mind boggling ride into over thinking and adventurous envisions. Rather, it seemed to become monotonous, with predicted set of rules and boundaries of expectations, from her and for her. She wanted to break free and drift into a path of desolate fabrications. The light which guided her home seemed hazy when she dared to think distinctively. Not that she was being bound in a cage by others, but herself. What feared her, she didn't seam to decipher. A thrill of emotions was missing as she raced her mind into the past, harbouring her version of pleasant scenarios. What made her shift thoughts between what was, what is, and what possibly could never be, so briskly,was something she couldn't comprehend.

What was that little piece of puzzle she was searching for, that little ray of light that could enliven her again, that little hope of completeness to complement the contentment she had reached in her life (or not?).

She began to realize that as time flew past, there was accumulation, responsibility and beyond that, great unrest.