Waiting

How am I supposed to know that you have met me? I haven’t met anyone since last 22 years, so meeting you is impossible. I am sorry, you have got it wrong, may be I am not the one you are looking for. I only remember my long wait for the one who never came up to see what I had. I had a painting of flower and pen and had some toffees too. I thought of telling that I have a heart and it beats for you, but I did not tell this to anyone, not even to myself. I fought this feeling for many years, never knew that I will succumb to it, and finally what I was afraid of happened on that day when I burned the panting, its flower and its pen; it burned my heart too. I could see rain drops falling down on the broken boulevard; the road was empty and so was my mind. I yearned to think something, I could not even think of my painting, not of my heart, not of the meeting. I was blank, and ahead of me was the road of despair. This was the third time I was waiting, I kept waiting, again felt lonely, and it was the third rain of the spring. We didn’t meet at all. This was the fate. What was the reason—not meeting at all? Who was to blame? I was to blame; I was the one guilty of doing nothing, saying nothing, thinking nothing, and believing in everything. Things will never be yours, unless you embrace them, unless you express something to them, unless you share joy with them, they say, I don’t say, I say what they don’t say, they don’t hear, they don’t think. I am still waiting, and I will keep waiting. I will wait. This was the fate, I know, but this is not the fate.