I like you!
Or so is the whisper of my heart. In the hallowed reverberations of such a whisper, I need to confess that possibly I am coaxed more by the attraction of novelty than the affection of care. I have to admit that I grow in affection by riding the traffic on the two-way street of reciprocation. Deliberating this streetscape, I had no intention of. I presumed that at best we would share our facile chapters. But so disarmingly profound I found you that at times; on days happy, my thoughts run by the periphery of your halo; and on days cynical, my thoughts seem inadequate of the beauty of eloquence that you devour.
But now what?
How am I to discern art from cacophony! Everyone is desecrating their canvas with smudged swipes of human mass. Some browse to suspend boredom, some need attention to validate, some satiate addiction to dopamine and some scamper towards sexual emancipation. But invariably; all looking to escape the perils of life, but echoing well-rehearsed redundant questions; all looking to feel alive, but raising banal toasts to numbness; arrive the her et cetera on my canvas. As if everyone is inside an Orwellian simulation of insipid anonymous masks. As if everyone is lusting to dispense in favour of the next convenient mask from the conveyor. I will like to live outside. Away from contrived connotations. At the Untinder land.
But now what?
At a time like this, one usually quotes the likes of Nabokov’s poem to Vera or Neruda’s Don’t Go Far Off. But that shall be criminally insincere. I do not come from a place of loss, nor do I have an inherent thirst for longing. There is no game to be played, no posturing to be made, no impression to be drawn and no purpose to be met. I reject those. Instead, there is only truth to be narrated and meaning to be constructed; set in the premise that barring ephemeral pauses, reality shall be unfailingly prosaic just like this letter.
But now what?
Preoccupied with the dominion of my selfish existence, I often saunter away from voices into oblivion. But for fleeting moments in your account of the ways of the world, I found myself wishing the world and your murmur to be infinite. It could have been for your wisdom, your dorky glasses, your warrior spirit, our political congruence, your squinty eyed smile, your clumsy tales, your spirituality or your funny fake punch face. Or it could very well have been for my Gatsbyesque projection of you. I wonder why. I want to find that out.
But now what?
I seek time. And in due course; your habits and ways see, your quirks and idiosyncrasies find, your stories and dreams know, and your fears and plagues share; I will like to. Not on text. Not on call. In voice. In flesh. I know not how we shall unravel. But unravel us, I want to. In our delirium of somewhere else to be; in our implicit craving, grinding, chasing, grasping and running; do you want to pause and talk? Do you want to embrace and just be?
What do you want?
