Burning Bridges

I have a habit of building weak, frail bridges, ones which do not have the vigor to last a lifetime. I like building these bridges though, despite the fact that I’m the one who laments seeing them burn their way down to ashes. All these bridges are built so abruptly, out of the blue, in the middle of nowhere, that I do not get time enough, to mend their making or stop their construction once and for all. About reconstructing, as some might suggest, that doesn’t seem necessary until they’re on the verge of breaking, shattering or setting ablaze.

At least I build these bridges, cross the path to the other end, see what lies far beyond my imaginations and live a part of it all. And in this journey, I breathe. Inhale. Exhale. I live these moments, capture them in my heart and set myself free, on some other journey, busy building, re-building another bridge that’ll crumble down to pieces eventually.

Amidst this process, I met you. Another bridge, you see? Weak. Frail. Its inability to stand true to its foundation being clearly visible in the dim light overshadowing the path that lies ahead. I choose to walk on it, irrespective. I see you there, busy picking stones, choosing bricks and laying them one by one, in an attempt to build the strongest bridge one would ever come across. I admire your zeal. I look forward to helping you with it, stone by stone, brick by brick. We build half the path, together, and then it comes to a standstill. You look at me and realize I had been helping you all this way through. You almost hold my hand asking me to walk with you through it. But the minute you say this, the bridge wavers. It quivers under your feet and you leave my hand.

You are scared that your bridge will break. It will falter. You have a fear that it might not be able to handle the load of the two of us. And so you ask me to step back, meanwhile, offering to help me build my bridge, stone by stone, brick by brick. I see the stones in my hand and then at you. You offered to build my bridge with stones and bricks but didn’t see that it was built of hay and sand. Weak. Frail. I solemnly deny, knowing I do not have strength enough to pick up the hay and work on my bridge.

So I see you walk away, watching you pick stones, choose bricks and lay them one by one, in an attempt to build the strongest bridge one would ever come across. And I? I still am on the crossroad where you left, with a stone in my hand and hay in the other, knowing not which path to tread, still making castles out of hay and stones combined, planning lives together, waiting; waiting for you to get done with your bridge and help me with mine, or at least, at the least watch me build mine, stone by stone, brick by brick.