Letters to a Soup.

Dear Chicken Clear soup,

I bet you are looking at me right now and wondering why I am fiddling with the earrings. If you really had a voice, you'd ask me to sit straight and drink you up. But really, I want to keep you in your bowl a little longer as a witness to the non-existent conversation on this table. By the way, my blurry, slightly sepia toned reflection actually looks quite nice and I wish some of my photographer friends were here to notice it, take a picture and I'd put it up as my profile picture. I haven't had a good one in a while. But my photographer friends are all away and they hardly ever carry the camera when I am around. Is it weird that these days I look at random occasions and think of profile pictures? The other day, KBC was going on and they played a video of Amitabh Bacchan shaking hands with a random man and I said, with my hands in the director's pose and all, "Hmm. He should take this still and make it his profile picture. 73 likes for sure." Everyone laughed, but I was pretty damn serious. And then in Bombay I keep seeing these artistic hippies with jholas sitting on the sidewalk and I wish I was their friend so I could click a photo of them and then they'd put it up as their profile picture and give me credits.
But all this is too dramatic to be true, soup. See all this chaos that surrounds my table? The conversation is mind-numbing and the laughs too shrill. Small children dressed in miniature dresses are running everywhere. They remind me of protons because of their energy. If I were an old man sitting here, I would get high just looking at those kids.
You are quite delicious. Hm. Its a pity you can't drink it yourself. I don't mean to lead you on, though. I haven't done that in a long, long , long time. Is it weird that at the peak of my youth, I neither long for nor distance myself from a mature relationship? Hah. The last time I felt like a messed up, in-love teenager seems like a long time ago. So ancient and unkempt that texting furiously while smiling seems like an act from History. My hair is shorter too now, see. Some think it is for a dare and some think it was a random decision. I don't know, Soup, I cannot explain my hair to anyone. Nor my theory for cutting it so short.

The bowl you are currently in, makes you look like some sort of a pensieve. Especially after adding the sauce. Maybe we can be friends in an alternate universe where I don't have to drink you and serve as my reflection.  
I look at you and just find a small boy wearing earring looking back into all things that don't really matter, including this conversation.
You could do with some vinegar honey.

Yours,
Me.