what i want for christmas

i want conversations. long rambling ones that go all over the place and loop back on themselves.

i want tea. cups of amber flavour that sustain and fill me up with quiet.

i want a rug. to lay down on. belly up. staring at the fan whirring overhead. while my friends lay lizard like with me.

i want stories. to take me places. to live in. to live out.

i want laughter. tinged with a slight amount of craziness. and glee. that bubbles up from deep within me and catches me unawares.

i want wine. on my rack. in my refrigerator. atop my dining table. swirling in with conversations

i want country roads. that don't always lead somewhere. that are not paved. or lit up. that in their ordinariness do exactly what they are supposed to.

i want music. from my childhood. from the future. at work. in blue frog. in words. in silences. in dances in front of strange beautiful houses. in my life.

i want unfinished letters. the old fashioned ones. the ones you fill with love and hope and passion. and then forget about. lil scraps of yellow paper that forever store a memory and keep it alive.

i want an open house. that friends flow through. that friends stop by at. where the seats at the table belie the size of the space.

i want distances to grow shorter. or less expensive.

i want journals. pages and pages of observations and thoughts and doodles and laundry lists lying spread eagled on textured paper.

i want books. any book. every book. always

i want winds. that blow into my house and through my hair. winds that carry smells and sounds from another place.

i want whispers. in warm breaths on my ear. that make me smile. that startle me. that let me in on confidences.

i want strappy heels. that lift me up.

i want postcards. from places i'd like to go to. and places you'd like to go to.

i want pancakes. smeared with chocolate. or packed with strawberries. for breakfast. or dinner.

i want soaps. handmade from flowers.

i want a secret santa. to trade gifts for cookies and milk.

i want me. to not turn into someone my childhood self wouldn't recognize.

i want sounds. of water. of dried leaves. of tapping keys. of familiar voices. to drown out the black noise.

i want socks. that break the greyness of winter with warmth and colours.

i want foolishness. to always be a virtue.

i want occassions. everyday. even in the mundane. ceremony should be everything.

i want regrets. to mean a song from jay-z.

i want spontaniety. to never describe how i used to be.

i want journeys. that are unplanned. or planned. lots of them.

i want rain. tapping on my roof. falling on my face. washing away worries.

i want conflict. to always keep me growing.

i want african violets. like the ones my mum used to grow when i was younger. small pots with canary yellow, deep purple flowers that just looked exotic.

i want underwear. that can reflect all the 50,000 moods i might be in.

i want terraces. to be a more important part of houses in bombay.

i want plants. that don't die, inspite of my black thumb

i want summer. to always stir up hibernated feelings of restlessness in me.

i want gulmohor trees. falling over with the weight of yellow flowers to always line the road back to my house.

i want a bed. with starched bed sheets. heavy with memories. perfect for refuge. with space for two.

i want nights. to always be when i come into my element.

i want the small things. to mean more than the big things.