It seems to me that both the artist and the philosopher are preoccupied with the same domain, that of the self.

One seeks to cling to the self, to explore and expand it, to eke out a place of one's own. For the other, all attempts at uniqueness seem folly.

One seeks expression; the other, release. One yearns to be visible; the other will settle for nothing but oblivion.

Trouble is, I don't know who's what.

***

The smallness of your heart comes in various shapes. But then that is bearable even though it's the one thing you have been trying to escape.

What is inescapable, and hence unbearable, is when you confront it in someone you don't want to confront it in.

***

Anger and desire seem to be conjoined. You distill anger from your spirit and later you realize that desire has slinked out the back door. And when anger makes a special appearance, desire starts licking the edges of your soul. While the artist needs both, the philosopher seems dead set against them.

Age is a quiet shutting of doors as day deserts.

Turn your back, knot your robe, shuffle around the house, lock the windows, draw the curtains, turn on the light and wait for the lizards to come out of hiding.

Age is renewing the newspaper subscription, feeding the cat when it isn't hungry, watering the cactuses shrubbing the porch.

Plumber fixes leaks for free. Neighbours make excuses to check if you're still alive. Careful : don't bore the kids.

Age is valium, bed sores, wispy hair, sagging breasts, oatmeal memories, cataract evenings, cancer lurking around the prostrate.

Fall asleep in the arm-chair. Drool on your shoulder. Forget dreaming. Forget worrying.

Age is a phone call nobody makes.

Watch the world shrink. To the street. To the door. To the puddle of urine around your feet. To the hardened lines on your nails. To your thoughts. Feel it shrivel inside your pajamas. Feel it warp into the furrows on your forehead and trickle down the wrinkles around your eyes.

Age is a dusty calendar two years old.

Slice a vein. Inject an air-bubble. Slip in the shower. Drown in the bath-tub. Easy does it.

Age is an ache for life that refuses to go away.

today, in the afternoon, i saw someone walking. just like you. with those same free-swinging arms and small, tightly clenched fists.

i resumed reading but my head whirled around to see if it was indeed you. all along knowing there was not a chance on earth, or mars, that it could be.

and it was, of course, not you.

it's not the first time something like this has happened. a couple of weeks ago i thought i heard your voice and it turned out to be someone else. apparently, i've assimilated you more than i realize.

i seem to know the exact length of your stride, the point to which your hair tapers down your back, the slight narrowing of eyes when you walk, the way you wear your clothes, the rhythm of your footfall, the sound of your breathing, even the weight of your shadow. i don't know if you remember me in this way too. maybe. maybe not. does it matter? maybe. maybe not. i don't know. perhaps, i don't want to know.

thinking about the way you walk, the memories come tumbling down. like leaves shaken free by a gentle breeze. vivaldi's hopping violins in 'autumn' start to play inside my head. the air seems lighter, clearer, crisper. a sigh slips out from in between my lips. my heartbeat steps up a few notches. i feel as if i'm standing on the edge of the world, inside a small chalk-drawn circle; blue, blue sky all around me, not a cloud in sight. that is what you feel like: the edge of the world on a glorious sunny day. with no vertigo to throw me into a free fall.

it's strange how memory works its magic even when we aren't looking, how we end up in the strangest of places without trying, how two people can condense the world between them; it's stranger how clinical memory can be when it cleans up, how we've chosen to live amidst the mundane despite knowing the beautiful, how two people can drift apart, like ghosts, into separate universes.

i look down at my phone wondering if i should call you. and tell you what? that i saw someone who walks just like you? and what would you say in return? what would we talk about after that? breakfast? will we still argue about who should cut the call? i shrug and put the phone back in my pocket.

but then something's not letting me sleep tonight. yes, hindsight is where we all want to be sooner than later and wisdom sometimes can't wait till tomorrow. but right now there are memories pleading to be pickled. so here i am, writing this.

to let you know that i saw someone walking today.

just like you.