Bookmark #383

Like how we often lose grip of ourselves, the other day, I too lost my disposition to nothing in particular. It was a blur of emotion, so I decided to walk to the nearby cafe, which seems to be a panacea at this point. As I sat on the chair and sipped the coffee, I suddenly felt my wits come about me. My smile returned. It was as if I had just woken up, at that very moment, and that the day up until then had been a bad dream. As far as dreams go, it was not a nightmare, only a little unnerving.

Perhaps, it was the song floating about the grassy patio or the flowers, all around, in all colours possible. It may have been the exhaustion, but I felt the urge to tell someone I loved them. Then, it occurred to me how I could not think of anyone when I thought of romantic love. There were no lingering promises—all of them were broken, and no chronic wound—all my cuts had closed and healed. I did not know what to do with this love I felt so suddenly, and in having no one to give it to, I decided to write a letter to no one in particular:

While the world convinces you to go through it all alone in the name of some agenda of their own, I want you to know you can call me at the oddest hours, and I will be there. If it has to be five-thirty-five in the evening, so be it. I seldom have trouble making time. While my culinary talent is limited, I will fix us up a sandwich and some coffee. We can sit on the balcony talking for as long as you’d want to, and if it is silence you’d want, then we shall sit silently and watch the sky change colours and smile at the birds going to-and-fro.

And while the world convinces me not to show an ounce of emotion and keep my truth to myself, I will lay all I have ever felt for every second of my insignificant life in front of you. I am terribly tired and utterly exhausted of us being poster children for those who carry their pitchforks in their back pockets; we could clearly, and much more happily, be in love instead.

I wonder if this was some forgotten, leftover feeling from years ago. I could not have known. I do not know still. I finished my coffee and walked home. Even love, I believe, tends to rot when kept inside for too long.

// if you want to support this walk to nowhere, you can pitch in here