INFINITY OF SIGHS, RISING TIDES

ALL WE DO IS HIDE, ALL WE DID WAS HIDE. - Me.

 Dear you,

I was prepared for the preordained status of this letter as a rhetorical statement for my benefit than yours.

You remember all ‘those times’ when all you want for yourself is an Advil and sleep. (In that order) The day that marked your vanishing act till this day, have been ‘those times’.

 That ‘swell’ time when we rode the carousel with Graham Nash blasting our eardrums, telling us that, “The entire world was love” and, we sang along till our throats were parched for another shot from our ‘secret’ whiskey flask.

You had forced me to take up that ‘stupid’ job at the banned books club, enunciating every sentence from their beat up pamphlet. “Don’t sweat it, Woolfy”, you’d told me in the waiting room, before ruffling my hair (it took me an hour to look like that). And you popped a cigarette, your feet tapping with nervous energy. You were bad at faking it.

I force myself to remember the times before you had ever existed in my universe, before you dismantled my ‘guarded and cagey emotional-fortress’, as you called it. It’s like seeing through tar, everything glistening with a vortex of a technicolor on bitter charcoal.

Do you remember the playlist you had compiled over the long and bitter winter? The one you’d titled, “Black hole of a heart”, I’d burst into a riot of a million ugly chuckles and you’d whispered, and I heard, “mission accomplished”. We spent the whole night talking about the man on the moon with the playlist on its hundredth loop and the water sprinklers in the morning couldn’t erase the quiet understanding we felt in our hearts. ‘Simple’ is a foreign word for me now.

When you left for Dublin and sent me pictures of the Book of Kells .I recall you calling me on New Year’s and slurring with all the alcohol in your veins, “I put you before Art”, as clearly as my volition to keep you in my heart for as long as I shall live.

 I can imagine you daydreaming about a certain colour that’s gotten you into a trance, beckoning you to jog back to your studio and immerse the canvas in it. You, sitting in a coffee shop with a friend (whom I don’t know); sketching the face of the attractive waitress on a paper napkin, I just hope you don’t give it to her.

You always had that old-world charm about you, you know? The ink black,  long hair- always in an unmanageable mess. The ocher-brown irises under those hooded eyes which were always in a state of contemplation, those lips that seemed to always be smirking at an inside joke. You looked the part too, the Art major with the silver easel. But I realised belatedly that, I wasn’t your Art.

WE wished, we wished but all we did was hide. Hide from what we truly felt and meant. I know I’d be the moth around your flame, the 70’s never left me; the hopeful believer in the goodness of Love. I would quote Byron and you’d be the Eliot. You were the black hole that blinded my world and hurled me into the raging whirlpools of the hollow land, the real one. I used to tell you that it isn’t love if doesn’t feel like the 70’s and you’d quote Erich Segal and I was naive enough to think that a Love like ours was meant for movie screens.
We kept running in circles, always shy of the horizon, where we would actually meet. We never realised what we truly were, we never ventured to explore.

You hid behind your Artistic freedom that dictated you to disconnect from fixation of the romantic kind; you were a traveler, a vanishing act. I was the dreamer who stood on the horizon, waiting for you to join me and watch us become. I hid in the waiting, all the illusions slowly dissipating into an inferno of flames, until there was only me and the burning sky, so much for becoming.

I have lost too much love to fear, doubt and distrust. So I offer you a final secret: my hiding place.

I wrote this, not in hopes of finding a riposte but, to finally find a restful slumber in knowing that I can finally come out of hiding.

With hope at last

-Me.

P.S.  I woke up from my seemingly indefinite Odin sleep. I wrote this while listening to daughter and Nada Surf. I have been neglectful. Sorry. You guys are Love. And Love should be treasured. This equals to a Peace offering?

“Here you go” said the perky waitress in little Shakespeare, setting down the warm cup of vanilla latte on my ancient ebony table. “Thanks.”I responded with a crinkling smile, feeling no gratitude towards her.

As soon as she left my personal space I sighed in acute relief. The familiar ochre floating in lighter clouds comforted me. The smell of cocoa and vanilla makes the world a background noise. I took a deep breath. I needed to browse the bookstore before starting my dreadful assignment. My life was a perpetual downward spiral. 

“People aren’t broken. They’re just interestingly wired.” ― Silvia Hartmann. Sigh.

The quotes carved on my table reminded me of the vehemence of a lost era, a time when quotes and ink held Delphic wonder. I stroked the patterns in pity. Had I not once dreamt of writing something so profound that it would validate my purpose? I had. Well look where that landed you my subconscious sneered.

It was my dream that now made millions for the people I’d naively believed in, it was my thought that found an echo in a million hearts, it was I who watched it being tossed over like a pack of cigarettes.

I shouldn’t resent it now. I will get another moment to glow. “Don’t lie to yourself, Bronte.” I heard a voice from the adjoining table. I snapped out of my reverie and turned my head slowly to the direction of the speaker. Reid.

In one fluid movement he stood up and sat across from me. His long brown hair slightly tousled, his nut-brown eyes measuring my demeanor. “Aiming for the sad Keanu look?” I rolled my eyes.  “You’ve got that harrowed expression again.”  He settled an ivory square on the table beside the now icy dose of caffeine. I fixed my gaze on the fierce jaw, the wishful eyes and suppressed my own inexplicable need to linger a little longer. “A book?” I said, tilting my head, my hair cloaking my eye.

He just kept looking at my hands. The sound of tearing paper made me the Sun for people within earshot. His perfect lips turned up into a knowing smile. I ducked a little with a wispy “sorry” and there it was, my personal miracle.

Dear Miss Faye,

We happily accept the request for publishing your debut novel, “Somewhere”. It will be a success. Our entire staff is excited by the possibilities of this project.

Find enclosed with this letter of approval, all guidelines required to finalise this process. The production editor had a few notes so enclosed. The paperwork is a preliminary draft of your book contract.

Please look these over till 5 December 2015, also feel free to contact the head of sales Mr. Carroll.

Looking forward to meet you.

Sincerely, yours

William Hatter.

Tears of consternation and reassurance blotted my cheeks. Reid shifted his chair and closed the distance between us. For the first time in my anaemic existence I was seeing signs of life. The rain of joy terrified me like a nightmare. “It’s happening, it’s coming for you.” I gazed at him through the tears, “unparalleled Happiness” he whispered. The words embraced my thoughts, reverberating silent prayers of gratitude. “Winter”, his voice implored me to accept the moment.  “Reid” I whispered with all the emotion I could converge into the preceding words “Why do you care?”

He tucked my hair back, I could feel the weak willed restraint leaking out. “Because, you make me brave” said he in his oceanic voice. He saw things the way a dreamer knits incessant illusions, with a mutilated hope, hope nonetheless. I cannot recall who kindled the searing Lip-embrace as I called it, but it hurt to part. All my sorrows washed away. “Reid you’re a mythical creature” I sighed. He snorted attractively; I do not know how one accomplishes that. He stood up beckoning me to follow him “Today’s book- purchase monstrosity is on me, go play in your natural habitat, Winter.”

PS- I am ashamed to be writing anything at all. It's a fucking shames that I have neglected this sacred blog for mso long. Any plea for forgiveness cannot clear the guilt and shame.