The narrative about those 3000 miles of revulsion and impervious veil of darkness, the lack of light, and 72 hours of disgust and dirt about those shinning floors can be summarized in simple anamnesis of togetherness because you weren’t there. And the nights when smoke clouded the vision and I gasped for breath and a sight of the stars, I placed you there in midst of 1001 galaxies—cadre of my world, all those supernovae were envious of your glamour—and let your light shine in on me. In memories we approach the volatile definitions of embrace, of touch and magic.
Or another time, as melody in the air ("some dance to remember, some dance to forget"), spreading and stretching its boundaries like a multeity on the junction between the sun and the desert, you were there standing still in the centre and I danced around you in circles. And then you'd slither your way in my dream, tread upon the labyrinths of my mind with a certain certainty; and mock my vulnerability with a faked naiveté, ‘where’s the linear labyrinth you promised me?’
Or in the night, without the benefit of moonlight, the seething screams of Bach and Satie's gymnopedies, (I rub my naked feet on the floor) memories, melancholies and longings, smoke and perfumes, (I wipe the sweat trickling down my forehead, pay heed to the shouting children three floors below), a cacophony of all voices, all vices, juxtaposed over a fabric of familiar phrases, phases and recursive mazes.
And how does it feel at the hour of waking, left stranded, not far off from sleep, between space and time, with the fragrance of moist soil freshly kissed by summer rain and soporific cool winds, sweet muscle pains and heavy eyes, the hour when you stretch your arms in most real of all illusions only to find that you are alone.
Mundanities of the day and angst in the night when some illusions wither.
And I am left as a mere story teller, a persistent supple echo in my own mind, like the surreal flexible watches in Dali’s dreams, forming colours that suit, forming, with my own memories, graves and shrines.
I remember vividly, one of the eves spent in hell and a beautiful maiden on the cross. Her flesh was ripped by the pebbles thrown by religious birds, and her blood burnt the land it was spilling onto. I went up to her, touched her pale skin which melted and made a hole she whispered 'such are sins of flesh'. 'She wanted Him all for herself.' They told me, they told me that she wanted to love in flesh. 'What’s good for humans, aint good for the God'... That night I made her grave, the first of many without gravestone or iconic memorials. Except for the screams. But those preferred to stay stagnant and hover above—some mark shall be left for those who don't fear His wrath.
These pieces of wordsjust fill in the emptiness of these lines, waiting for a meaning, a consubstantiality, an identification. What means what, if anything, and why, and why not something else. Prior to the interpretation of a text and the answers it unfolds, there are the questions that anticipate answers. And writing becomes a unique heuristic voyage for the author ITself, as well as the varying readers. A random evolution of a judgment out of disparate and embryonic circumstances, semiotics and symbols and what they mean to me in multiple perspectives (particle, wave and field) , and formulation of a situational truth in my mind that I try to duplicate in the minds of a reader, in whatever structures I can come up with for an effective communication. But still my syllogism takes the benefits of an 'if', a root that maynot have actual existence and I revolve in circular mazes, fabricating a charted land of fabulous fables, under the illusion of that I may have conveyed something.
And for you kid, togetherness is a different structure, built on a stairway of connections. Each connection, like a single stair, ends for another for togetherness to be together. Such is the form of togetherness. And no connection can be renewed, every attempt at its revival renders it somewhat weaker, a multitude of cracks appear within the structure causing a collapse, a breaking apart. Remember? The pieces fit, but you watch them tumbled down. And if you over-emphasize a certain regime of signs as sensitivity or naiveté, like speech, you may escape togetherness for a different route altogether. Thus it is for want-of-being-together to build new connections before older expire.
And heart has its mysterious ways. The impenetrable heart that never thawed had yet to discover its own vicissitudes.A moment When all the rues and quest of rebellion were vanquished for a happiness that trickled down on my face, in gratitude of a miracle just born (such fragile beauty wrapped in clothing, smiling and breathing at intervals-intervals with a miniscule hiatus between them- hiatus which could stop my heart) and euphoria of a collage of emotions, of all forms of happiness and some forms of love.
In one of the borgesian labyrinths, I learned something: nothing in the world is devoid of tiny seeds of hell. That's why memory is volatile dear, anything and everything is capable of driving us insane if we are unable to forget it. Envisage a possibility of persistence of memory-- memories that we made together, at all times, wouldn't it be enough to drive us mad. This lack of persistence in minds and actions, these moderations and balance instruments (I wanto cry, and I wanto laugh. I wanto be touched and I wanto be left alone. I wanto be you, and I wanto be me) keep us from boiling in infernos of excess, whether it is a cheesecake or ravenous sex.
In this assemblage of forking times, one of the times, this favourable time that fate has granted us with to be particular, you exist and so do I, bounded to each other through a series of connections, defining the verisimilitude of each other; In another I'd write the same lines, but I'd be a ghost, an illusion. But in all of time’s innumerable permutations, in which I exist and so do you, I am grateful to you for existing.
In ephemeral dreams I dream of immortality and wake up trembling in fear. What good is immortality, where every act is an echo of others that preceded it in the past that never had a beginning, or the presage of others that in future will repeat it to a vertiginous degree until forever. Everything is, as if it is lost in a maze of indefatigable mirrors, nothing is preciously precarious. I cherish your face, your eyes that glow to see me, your inviting smile and you because one day it’ll all dissolve like it never existed.
In the cesspit of wastes from emotional deluge, I have lost many pieces of me and so have you, the pieces which we won’t ever find again. And this loss makes us precious, to each other, and to ourselves. Period.