As the raindrops fall..they tell a story.

When we're crafted we're like that newly purchsed notebook that has not yet been scribbled on. Words are written slowly and gradually, and pages begin to fill. We observe entraces and exits - some unpleasant and some ineffably delightful. Smiles are witnessed, but not without the absence of numerous tear blotches, of course, that make the once crispy pages irrevocably soggy. Faces are etched on pages that we like to go back to every once in awhile on some sullen, lonely night when we're longing for company. We live with nostalgia for so long that we realise we'd be lonely without it.

People come. They scribble their story. They leave. It's a never ending cycle. We firmly believe we can hold on to the pleasure of having a certain someone's company for all eternity but we're naive. We realise that at the end of the day we're left just as we always were - alone and deprived of love. But our egos resist and we're fooled into thinking we can do no wrong as we begin to chase a different someone with the conviction of a zealot.

It's absurd how other people get to decide what our tale is going to look like; if it's going to have heart-shaped confetti sprinkled over every page or if it's going to look like the reflection of a morose, overcast sky. We realise we don't have much say in that but we suppress our thoughts. We think we're heroes. Heroes who can take over the world in the blink of an eye. Only till we're thwarted and foiled. Till we realise we're losing control and conveniently blame our destiny. We think at length of what could've been, of how different life could be only if we hadn't made that one decision. It breaks our heart, for it's a tad too late. That particular passage has already been penned. It's irremediable.

While we take our time to scan other people's tales, we're bound to compare them with ours. Some of us mull over the fact that we weren't all born with silver spoons in our mouths and wonder how other people are so in control of their stories regardless of our limited knowledge of their lives. We love to form opinions based on secondhand experiences. Opinions that are firm and are most likely never going to change. But we're fine with that. Only as long as it doesn't affect us.

Words continue to appear, paving way for either a fairytale or a heartrending tragedy or a blend of both. Those of us who are scarred with the calamitous silently wait for a twist of fate..for something to look forward to. While those of us who are blessed with bliss get busy carping..get consumed by the unsettling warp of what-ifs. We're all, at the end of the day, running after fantasies that are not likely ever to transpire. We're arrogant ingrates.