Impressions

Sometimes, oh just sometimes,  We need some people more than they need us.  And the extent of our need makes this intransitivity gut-wrenching.  The knowledge  that we are but peripheral characters, Shakespeare's Fools, In the plays written by those  Who play principal characters in our narratives, is crushing.  And it hurts hard. It leaves a gaping holes in our hearts,  While barely making dents elsewhere. Being relegated to dispensability,   Incidents becomes anecdotes Stored in our memories, Waiting to relived through ghostly conversations   Only, these anecdotes gather cobwebs, lost in the maze of other such incidents waiting to be recounted. 

I did it for you, Dad said. No child should grow up in a broken home.  But little did he know then that broken we would become  Years of bitterness and regret Would keep beating at the door  Doing their bit in wearing us down  Unsaid hurts and grievances would crystallise  What could have been washed away easily once  Would form stalactites in the cavities of our hearts  And silences would engulf silences Deepening the abysses between the broken people  Living in an unbroken home