Sunday, 27 June 2010
Thursday, 24 June 2010
'Remember the day that we met in the park
Where the sunlight and shadow entwined?
That picture looked perfect, more perfect than art.'
I remember walking up the stairway to go to my fridge - it was snowing especially then, more snow than London had seen in years. So, I had got myself a bottle of cognac (for the chilling bite of the winter - I told myself) and gave her a call. We spoke of irrelevant things, and suddenly, about photographs.
'We took a lot of pictures of the snow,' she said. 'You know,' it hit her, 'we don't have a single picture together. A SINGLE picture. That's so sad.'
'It's better that way,' I told her. 'It's in our...'
'I know, I know, it's in our minds - blah, blah,' she cut me short. 'But I still want a picture together.'
As I swirled the cognac that I had already poured a moment before in my glass, plopping unto the sofa beside me, I took a long look at the snow pouring outside and smiled to myself.
'Pictures, are for those who forget.'
'What?' She said.
'Nothing at all.' The cognac was warm.
Now, as I sit on that very sofa again with another drink, after more than half a year, after leaving her, I think, perhaps it is better that we have no pictures together, and that, I cannot say:
'I used to smile every time that my eyes,
found the pictures of both of us framed on the wall,
Now, they’re pictures of nothing at all.'
Because, what are photographs but some odd shapes on some glossy paper that resembled the people you loved, the places you've been to, and the things you've lost? A concoction of all that once was, and is now no more.
Saturday, 19 June 2010
She walked to my bedside with her eyes visibly distraught, almost crying, almost worried, almost sorry. Being completely sorry was never her strong suit.
'You know,' she began. 'Those two - I always knew what those two wanted. They'd always ask, they'd cry, they'd even demand, but you - sometimes I would wake up in the night to find you awake, to find you hungry - but you never cried - you'd sleep in hunger. Even as a baby you never asked.' And then she took my hand, 'and you still don't ask. I took care of them, and you took care of me - maybe that's why I lost you. Maybe, that's why you're so angry now.' And the sun began shining through the panes.
In the blistering hot morning, he walked up to the window and lit a cigarette. I remember how I used to see him in my half sleep, and realise, he was happy. And there, splayed on the desk, the opened envelope of a telephone bill caught his eye. When he inspected the bill, he widely smiled; a smile which both spoke of contentment and fulfilled expectation.
'It's my number,' he said. 'It's all my number.'
I did not answer.
'I know,' he said. 'Who have you to call, but me?' And, in a swift stroke, like an old newspaper that served no purpose, he sent the bill flying back unto the desk. He reached for another envelope. I reached for my whiskey.
And when I held the bottle of whiskey, as though it were my wife, she said 'no - no, this is wrong. You shouldn't do this to yourself…it's just not right. You're so beautiful, and….don't do this.' A sobbing woman beseeched me in the dark.
Now, when I turn off my lights, it turns off truly for I have not windows, and therefore, the nuisance of light. The sun has no power in this room and light does not even carelessly wander by. What's without does not come within. And within, the only light, if there is to be light at all, lies at end of a bottle. Within, there are no lies; within, there is no pretense. Within, as it is for those of us who have a shard in our heart, there's just a man in the dark.
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Saturday, 5 June 2010
After awhile of walking and threading upon daisies and soft green turf, we came by the lake, and there, for some strange reason, the sun shone brightly. This was quiet part of the lake that I seldom visit - but being sunny, there were more people there than its wont.
'This is strange,' she suddenly said, plucking the turf about her anxiously, and throwing them into the lake.
'I think you've been reading literature for too long - it's gotten to you.'
'No,' she smiled. 'This…you…now - it's been more than a year.'
'So, why forgive you now?'
'Yes,' she dimly, despite the glaring summer sunlight, added.
'Well, I can hold a grudge and for what you did, holding a grudge wouldn't be too hard. But, what's the point in that?'
'Yes, there is no point.'
A goose then hopped unto the ground we sat upon, and the heat of the sun made us quiet, that we could only, with our eyes, follow the animal as it slowly made its way pecking at the soil.
'I bet…,' she started.
'Hmmmm?' I broke myself from the sight of the goose.
'I bet,' she continued, 'you wish had contacted me earlier, huh?'
'Did you learn?' I asked.
'Did you learn, in my absence? From my absence?'
'Yes,' she quietly said.
'You wouldn't have,' I said. 'Had you heard from me earlier.'
She smiled, and I, smiled back.
We burn bridges - we do. Some, so that we can move on, so that the person on the other side can't get to us anymore, some others, we burn to teach. Because we care enough to teach. Sometimes, the greatest gift you can give another, is your absence. And what you can't teach while being together, you teach, upon leaving.