Another year has passed

 Another year has passed - in unfinished novels, in unfinished canvases, in unfinished syllabus, in pink sunsets, in rainy afternoons, in virtual friendships, in online dating, in watching random interviews, in reading random articles on the internet, in Hemant afternoons, in horror movie nights, in Ruskin Bond monsoons, in greens, in longing for mountains, in newfound love for ghazals, in Moheen, in dim-lit rooms, in cooking for dear ones, in white sauce pastas and jhal muris, in stalking unknown Instagram profiles, in unwritten paragraphs, in Facebook fan groups, in love for The Office, in struggles with technology, in meaningless zoom calls, in making PDFs, in last-minute submissions, in suffocating masks, in love for blacks and whites, in messy hairs, in scratched glasses, in long afternoon walks, in window seat of public buses, in getting lost, in amateur photography, in amateur strumming, in lamest of jokes, in inexplicable love for films, in a love-hate relationship with writing. 

Another year has passed - in loss of words, in incomprehensible emotions, in being vulnerable, in anxious thinking, in fear of everything, in love for nothing, in making sense, in awe of things, in resonating, in belonging and not belonging, in never-ending sleepless nights, in unhealthy urges, in social anxieties, in bleeding fingers, in boredom, in denials, in hopelessness, in meaninglessness, in euphoria, in dilemmas, in doing nothing.

An enormous amount has changed each night. An enormous amount always remains the same.