Once again, HE rose.
And not like a phoenix that rises out of the ashes of its death. But like happiness, which rises when sadness has been accepted.
The Friendship Man was there, again. Aaryan had not been forgotten, only that he hadn’t been thought of. It was distance maybe, and the way they had drifted apart. But time had turned the pain in a mysterious way; and now there was only a different kind of happiness in the heart; the way people begin to think of each other after a long time of not seeing and not talking; that they had loved each other enough, to forgive each other in the end.
That whatever it was that had made things bad, the good part was always there. That some things had always been for real. From the heart, devoid of any pretence.
For him, it was that time of life when you turn to indulgence in some things, so that you can lose yourself while doing them.
Literature.Music.
Writing.
And alcohol.
It was all he wanted to do—to find solace in the lap of the things which existed naturally, which were totally incapable of betraying—and it healed him.
It was like a book of life had ended, it’s pages exhausted; and a new book had been opened up and the story in it had started to unfold—only that the writer was the same, but had adopted a different style of writing.
