Growing Up Each Day, We Realize Not Everyone We've Been Close To Has The Same Perspective As Us About

Growing up each day, we realize not everyone we've been close to has the same perspective as us about life. Our approaches are different and so are our takes on different situations.

Growing up good, however, means we share different perspectives yet not drift apart. It is like walking on the same road, on a starry night, and glancing at different stars, and still loving them for the same reasons.

Togetherness doesn't mean stark similarity. It means mutual differences yet honest love.

There are instances when I am like 'you okay?', 'did you eat?', 'take care!', 'It will be fine..', 'be safe..', and then there are instances when I am 'Go to hell, and contact me for address!'.

That's no fight between my angel and devil part. Infact, they are best friends and often sit with warm coffee gossiping about the people I encounter everyday. They analyse and decide accordingly who, among them, is to show up, at what time, and before who. And me? I just trust their decisions.

Tonight, when I gazed at a star in the eyes, it gazed back at me.

I asked him genuinely intrigued, "You know the world is gruesome. How you feel there up above, small and so loved?"

It chuckled humorlessly, "You know the sky is gruesome. How you feel there down below, small and so loved?"

Periodt.

"The tragedy made you kind!"

Stop your crap! I can't believe a tragedy that reveals the harshest side of life can make one kind. When you beat a rock with a hammer, it breaks, not becomes soft! If a tragedy, at the end of it, left me kinder than before, it is because I choose to be so. It is because I do not want to deal with a sword by screaming murder. I'd rather calm down, sit back, and let it thrash my surroundings till it is satisfied, but well not let it destroy myself. That while on my outer, it makes me kinder, in the inside, it makes me stronger.

I feel sometimes we ponder too much about the purpose of the people who enter in our lives. The fact is that some of them are only here to witness us go through life. Like see us, and cheer for us from the side. As in not jumping in our struggles to save us, and not merrily enjoying our happiness. Like a cricket fan watching a match of two foreign countries, loving none.

There is something special about being seen, and perceived. Like just stay there, and watch me play. But just stay. Your presence is fulfilling if not overwhelming.

You know what home is?

The place we succumb to at the end of the day.

Or the place where someone awaits our arrival.

Or some comfortable pieces of furniture enclosed within concrete walls.

Or the place we first felt confined in.

Or the place we first desired to run from.

Or? What exactly?