Rerecording

"Mmmm ... It is nice."
"Hai naa? See, I told you ... you like it?" :)
"Absolutely." :-)

A little after noon. Rain-washed campus frocked in green. Pitter patter of footwear on wet sidewalks.

"Do you wanna sit here?" Points. "Or do you wanna sit under the tree?" Points again. :-?
"Under the tree."

Two glasses of steaming tea.
Two pairs of hands.
Warmth.

"We used to come here just for the tea. Walk over from college, sit somewhere and just while away time over cups of tea."
"Mmm hmm ... I can see why." :-)

A deliberate initiation into rituals. A careful parting of veils. Peeks into the past. Hope for the future.

"What are you looking at me like that for?"
"Nothing." :D

The beginning of an understanding. A coming to terms with the reality of a dream come true.

"I know that man ..." Points.
"Who?"
"That man ... the one wearing the white t-shirt ..." Nods.
"With the beard?"
"Yup. Beard and the black jeans."
"He doesn't seem to have a butt ... you seem to know some strange men." :-D
:D
"He was my lecturaar at M------"
"Lecturaar? Is that what you call them?"
"Why? What do you call them?"
"Oh we call them lecturers, you know, just like how the English intended."
"Hmmm ... we call them lecturaars."
"Whatever."

Birdsong after the rains. Carefully testing the breeze, asking if there's more in store.

"Oooh ... look, there's an earthworm!"
"Where?" Looks.
"There, near the tree ... "
"Oh yes ... but is that an earthworm?"
"Yes, it is, must have come out because of the rains."
"Earthworms are like lizards, aren't they? As in, if you cut them into two, a new one grows out of each piece ... No?"
"You want to cut this one up and see?" :-o
"No, no, I didn't mean that ..."
"You're the one who likes beheading children" ;)
"No, no, I didn't mean that either." Exasperated.
"Really?" :)
"Oh, you're having me on."
:)
:-)

"I think he's going to the canteen."
"Your lecturaar? If he teaches at your college, what's he doing here? Your lecturers bunk class too?" :-o
"Maybe he likes the tea here too." :)
"Or maybe he's here for a smoke." Points.
"Oh ... I didn't know he smoked." :/
"Well ... seems like you know a lot else about him." :-)
"Oh I do know that he married this Scottish woman ..."
"... Scottish?" :-o
"...yes, Scottish ..."
"Really? That guy? With the beard and no butt?" Shakes head.
Giggles.
"Yes ... this place is full of these intellectual types, you know ... cigarettes and Sartre, wine and women ..."
"Hmmm ... Scottish women" :-/
"He used to teach us Horace, I remember ... had this sweet, melodious voice ..."

Eyelids narrow. Eyes start to twinkle. Thumb and forefinger of the left hand curl up into an 'O'. The other fingers stand slightly apart. A gesture from memory. An expression of fondness for the intangible.

"... barely carried past the first few benches ... you had to strain to make out what he was saying ..."
Looks.
Looks right back and smiles.
"... but it was worth it ..."
"Mmm hmm?"
"Mmm hmm." Nods and bites lower lip with a goofy grin. "And I would go 'aaaaa....'"

Laughs.
Gently rests head on shoulder. Dishevelled hair falls hesitatingly onto t-shirt.

"I should go and say hi to him, shouldn't I?"
"Yup, you should. He'd be happy to see you. My teachers from school are always happy to see me."
"But it's been a few years. I'm sure he won't recognize me ..."
"How does that matter? How do you know he won't? All you have to do is go say 'Hi' and take things from there ..."
"I don't know." Mewls.
"You're so useless ... I mean, it's barely 20 yards from here to there ..."
"I don't know." Mewls.
"Go ... go ... go now ... look, he doesn't have company and it won't be long before his cigarette runs out."
"I don't know."
"You're so useless."
"You know what ...?"
"What?" Raises an eyebrow.
"You should go talk with him." ;)
"Me??" :-o
"Yes. You." Bites lower lip and grins goofily again.
"Me go talk with him? Yeah right! And what would I talk with him?"
"Anything. You know ... you could talk to him about Schopenhauer ... I'm sure he'll be happy to chat with you."
"Yeah yeah yeah."
"Go naa ... you should go meet new people ... that's how you make your life interesting."
"Look who's talking!" Raises both eyebrows. "Forget new people, you don't even wanna go say hi to someone you know and here you are asking me ..."
"See, it's easier to talk to strangers ..."
Pauses. Looks up and smiles.
"Is it now?"
Looks down and smiles right back.
"Especially ghosts." :D
"Especially ghosts." :-) "I know what I'm going to do. I'm gonna walk up and tell him 'Hello, there's a friend of mine who wants to talk with you but is a little shy, so would you mind joining us for a cup of tea?'"
"You would?" :-o
"You know I will." :-)
"No, no ... don't do that. Let's just sit here and watch him."
"I can't believe how useless you are."
"I can't believe you don't wanna meet new people, especially interesting people."
"Look, he's your 'lecturaar'." Mimics.
"Oh, hush ... let's just sit here."
"Lazy bum." :-D
"Yes, that it is." :D
"I mean, God knows when you're gonna see him again."
"I know." Mewls. Sighs.
"Gah! Useless."
"'Gah! Useless.'" Mimics.
"Stop imitating me!"
"'Stop imitating me!'" :D
"Look, your lecturaar is leaving!"
"Oh dear ..." Sighs again.
"You're gonna regret not talking to him all your life. Go now. It's now or never." Exaggerates.
"I'm just gonna sit here like this." Rests head a little more firmly on shoulder.
"Useless."
"'Useless.'" Mimics again.
"Stop imitating me!"
"'Stop imitating me!'" :D
"Gah!" :-)
"'Gah!'" :))
...

Stretch

Note: Reader discretion advised.

Nobody told you this.

That the desert will feel this cold at night. A cold that permeates through to the marrow of your consciousness. Till you can't feel anything else but a dense blue haze freezing the behind of your eyes. Till your thoughts start chattering about inside your head, like icicles inside a matchbox.

That you won't know how far you've come until you're too far out to go back. That then it is but natural for you to feel vulnerable. That having experienced your vulnerability, it is a logical progression to pretend otherwise. That pretty quickly you grow into a routine of pretend and feign. That then, one day, tired and weak-kneed, you will give in to feeling whatever it is that you've not been permitting yourself to feel. That whatever it is, it will leave you crying, heaving, retching, will make you want the night to open its arms and take you in.

Nobody taught you anything.

To walk that emotional highrope between overconfidence and depression. To play shadow chess with pieces of yourself. To weave light from drops of darkness. To plunge a knife straight into your heart, watch the blood drip, then pull it right out and bring yourself back to life.

I'm teaching you this.

Fuck around with your mind. Turn it inside out. Try it on now and if it doesn't fit, keep fucking till it does. Feed yourself bits of your heart. See how they taste. Let your feelings simmer on a hotplate till they suit your palate. If something doesn't, spit it right out and pick the next one. In case you thought otherwise, you don't need a soul. Souls are for suckers.

I'm telling you this.

There is no desert.

There is no cold.

There is no you.

Everything's changed.

Nothing's the same.

Go now.

Idyll talk

Boundaries are crafty things. You breach them, break free, push them out as far as you can, pretend they don't exist, fool yourself into thinking you've escaped them, but they will always pull you back.

I see you sprawled on the bed like this and I have a feeling I know how angels look when they are sleeping.

Five more minutes. The alarm will go. But until then the peaceful rhythm of your breathing pervades the room. Every morning this room feels full of your soul, exhaled in tiny puffs throughout the night, for me to breathe in and fill my lungs when I wake up. I'm grateful for that.

It's good to wake up before you. This way I can see how ungainly you can become if only you would let yourself; how your limbs lie askew, lacking in their natural gracefulness; how your otherwise well-mannered mouth lies open, blissfully unaware of my surreptitious gaze; how your carefully disheveled hair is now a clumsy mop covering most of your face.

Yesterday, somebody asked me a question. An important question.

It was only after I finished answering that I realized I had used your words, your lines, your answers. A grin and a shake of the head later, I was back at work.

I bend down to your ears and tell you about this rather curious incident. You mumble something about keeping it quiet.

You look beautiful. I tell you this too. When you are sleeping. You mumble some more. Yes, precious, I know I'm a little mean. But then I like talking to you when you're sleeping. In the silly hope that I may figure in your dreams. Also because, sometimes, there's not enough space between two people to accommodate two sets of feelings; especially feelings of the magnitude you and I possess for each other. So yes, I talk to you when you're sleeping. I'm perfectly fine with that. Maybe you're not but then how would you know huh? Wait. Do you talk to me when I'm sleeping? Hmmm ... now that would be very naughty.

Sometimes, seeing you asleep, I wonder where you wander off to behind those closed eyelids, think about what those fluttering eyeballs might be seeing. There have been times when I've wanted to ask you about your nightmares. But then I was -- and am -- content holding you close till you fell asleep again. Some day, maybe, you'll tell me; you'll tell me about those magical lands you go visiting every night, free from the pressures of circumstance and the demands of protocol; you'll tell me what makes you wake up on some mornings with a twinkle in those soft lovely eyes; you'll tell me what scares you too. And as you tell me, I'll hold you closer. And listen intently to every word that you will say.

There is so much that I don't know about you. But then there's so much that I don't reveal too. Yes, I know it worries you a little that my eyes don't tell you a lot. I also know how courageous you are to believe in me despite that. Especially when you're so fluent in the language of the eyes. But then how do I tell you that I hide myself in between your worlds? That the only way for you to truly know me is to sleep and yet not sleep?

Perhaps, the resulting distance because of this lack of knowledge really doesn't matter. Yet, with every hectic day, when the world forces our lives apart, when uncertainty pulls us asunder, this distance only grows. Only for us to furiously converse through the evenings and the nights, in a desperate bid to come closer again, till you fall asleep out of exhaustion from too many thoughts thought and too many words spoken.

Running to stay at the same place.

Yet we try. Not because we have to, but because we want to.

And then there are times, like today, when I get tired of the purposefulness of our words, when I feel like tying my share onto a balloon and setting them afloat in your general direction without worrying about whether they will reach you or not.

At times like this, I talk to you when you're sleeping.

And my lips are slowly getting used to the intimacy of whispering your name between them.

One more minute. The alarm will intrude rudely. You will wake up, like a diver coming up for air. And in the ensuing sloppiness of your movements, when your arms flail out, when you reach for me in that endearing half-asleep-half-awake way, when your love lacks the sophistication that you insist on imposing upon it, I will steal a kiss, or two, so that I may feel the trembling hope of heaven on your lips ... for one more day.