Some people take time off, others hold people at an arm’s length, while others hold on tightly to whatever they can hold on to.
Because somewhere in a kitchen there could be a woman stopping the dishwasher, her yellow-gloved hands in the soapy water, gazing out the window, realising that she always wanted to be an actress but had become a mother too soon. There could be a spinster in a rocking chair, crying over the child she had aborted when she was young, feeling more alone than ever. In a hospital somewhere a doctor could be holding up a newborn by its ankles, marvelling at the miracle he had just performed. Elsewhere, who knows, a college student could be cheating in an examination, to meet his parent’s expectations.
As for me, I lie in bed till 4 in the morning, writing about my passions and dreams in red ink, thinking back on past experiences, present circumstances, and the mystery of the future.
Thinking of past lives, of threads and stars. Of Universes in one’s palm. Of portals into the Soul, of lost convictions, postcards and passports, of jumping from one mountain to another.
Elementary notebooks filled with summer drawings. The cresecendos and lulls of my favourite songs. My first Catcher in the Rye paperback. My mother’s laugh. A first kiss, stolen and innocent. Watching a plane take off from an empty soccer field, shielding my eyes from its silver brightness.
Fingers intertwining. The taste of tears, saying goodbye at the airport. The shock of hearing about someone’s sickness. The wedding of a best friend. Beautiful sunsets I’ve collected, midnight walks. Slipping stones into my pocket. Watching a man shape the desert and camels into a bottle one cold night. Watching you sleep, falling in love, falling quite a ways, just falling. You stopped the sun and moved the earth.
Looking back, looking within, I think of everything, of them, of you … and I’m convinced that somewhere along the way, I must have done something right to deserve you.
