One more night...

When I had first named my blog Memory's canvas, I had partly done it because I am by nature always nostalgic, as in habitually, but I had also done it because it sounded cool (to me), it evoked Tagore (and I am the quintessential Bangali who tries to entwine Tagore, Ray and Ritwik Ghatak in almost every facet of her life) and it was convenient.
But when you look through the album of memories, you understand how every cell in your body, yes and I mean every biological cell in your body, is just a bundle of the past. And how every one of them throbs with the pain of yearning. An utter impracticality of trying to run back to the bygone, hoping to recreate those drops of moments somehow. Why do we, why do I, keep doing it in full knowledge that it just won't happen?
The night when we had all laughed and sung and cursed and gorged on experimental food. How can it be that there will never be a repeat telecast of it? How do I accept that the guitar chords will not be played again? That perhaps some of the encounters I have had in life are just closed chapters?
I am not a people person. And yet, it is them that I miss. I long to cry. To break down. To gather the courage and tell the supreme controller of time, "What I wouldn't give up to relive that just one more time, just one more time god!"
But then would I really give up something? I doubt it of myself. Very very doubtful. I am so selfish that I have it all planned for the future, and how the heck do you suppose I could tear and throw a leaf out of that and put a past leaf in place instead?
But the laughter still rings, it rings till it gets louder and louder and louder -- the unbearably loud silent scream.