Past is this earth that I stand on. Future is that… the sky high up. I stand with firm steps on the ground, pushing up myself to reach the sky. Strange. I’ll never reach there, I know! My posture will be like this till I end up. Once I reach the sky, there is no way upward. My life ends there. And if I go down to my earth, I’ll be done with my life and I will then remain as my past. Strange again. There will be my earth if I look down from the clouds- the earth that clutched me firmly to reach the clouds, even knowing that I am moving away from it. I tend to imagine that I am in the clouds, that I am seeing the past of my future, looking down, deep, to my earth. It’s always hard to recollect the self that is lost in some grains of sand on the way. We look at the shells on the beach but forget the sand that embeds our steps. My diary scripts such walks of mine. How nice it is to turn back the pages to read how I enjoyed life laughing and crying in it… The way I spoke to you, you and you- it is good to remember the intonations. The echoes will be almost silenced. But the names will glow out from my deep history. The ways of friendships are worth getting traced out. Starting with the phrase, “Do you remember that day, when I….” The thirst for recollections will exceed a mere sense of nostalgia. And for that we keep many things across time. My school photos carry stilled expressions, your hide and seek plays between faces. Your greeting cards are still kept with your signatures and your old handwriting. The old dolls are in the shelf undisturbed with forgotten make-ups. My words make me see videos. The modern packs are dated links to nostalgia. The older posts in Facebook, blog or Gmail or the networks that link me to you have the presence of this present of someone called ‘Jyothy Sreedhar’. The columns blink with your names. Later, much later, I’ll laugh again to your jokes afresh, frown at your teasing afresh, feel sad for myself reading something or the other, recollect me as a movie character- the gestures, the thoughts, the mind. How I was, in contrast to how I am and will be. Looking at the mirror I may imagine I am that old character- a black and white picture, with a colourful layer inside. There will not be a future to that future then, all is past, scrambled within the present. I love the way you live in me, and I live in you. The stories become ours- be it yours or mine. Time gets defeated then. Memories fly faster than it. Light and sound compete in flight from some other world across those light years... I'll shrug with the present, reaching out to my future’s past. My dear, you will be remembered then- I promise, with these words!