It took a long time to come; a long time to think and ponder on. I was busy packing.
Packing my belongings and recollecting all that was there. Sometimes it takes a while to pack your past. Once you have established yourself in a place, you're a part of its existence. An existence breathed life into by the characters around you. The place is existing because we're there else it is a memory. And it is better to pack your memories before they get scattered in to the winds.
While packing, has it ever crossed your mind that what is it- is it my luggage or my baggage? Now, ain't both of these synonyms?? They're supposed to mean the same- across all travel catalogs, across all the destinations, amid those transits, those midnight halts, those check-in counters, in all languages; isn't it. Maybe not my friend!
Luggage is the burden that I trudge along from one place to another; from one destination to another. It bears on my shoulders heavily. My luggage is unpleasant, filled with that pouch of rotten evenings, that backpack of sick books and the trolley of stale conversations. Am I carrying that or is it otherwise? Baggage compiles of that trunk which your friends stuffed with stupidities, that suitcase where you dumped the eventful nights, those side-bags heavy with the moments you lived in.
So what is it my friend? I have my packing done, it's time to go. Some paraphernalia will be left behind, I guess. Let my share your luggage to ease your burden or else let my add to your baggage that which I can't carry.
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