Saturday, May 18, 2013

18th May 2013

On Saturdays, you go back.
To nothing really. A book perhaps. But before you know, its over. If it was one of those books you read because everyone else was reading it, you end up giving it three stars.

Do not offend friends, definitely not the ones who read.

If it turns out to be the ones that tug at old aches, losses or grievances, you screw up your cycle, close the book at dusk, go out to the balcony to abuse the lungs while contemplating a shower. You think. It's the weekend. And some time to think is the only luxury your mind looks forward to.

On Saturdays, you rearrange your furniture. Puff up the cushions, straighten the mat, adjust the position of the tea-candles. You talk to them. You converse silently but your face contorts expressively, perhaps you just muttered, right there! Well, how does it matter? Who's watching? Who's reporting on your case? It's just you and your apartment. Your walls, you dance to them. Your decor, an extension of you. Your flowers,wilting. Your bed, a ruffled pet. Your lamp, gleaming. Your painting, silent. Your shelves, perfect! Your violin, leaning. Your cabinet, rummaged. Your papers strewn. Your words, deranged.

On Saturdays, you log in to an old email account to check...what? You reply to a few mails, redirecting them to the new e-bode you've taken since 2010. You wander. You end up there again. Conversations, conversations are what made her go.... You wonder how once it was so effortless to have been vulnerable to an absolute stranger, "Do not despise me. It'll kill me." How it was not a gender-game at all. Such a naive power-play!

You laugh at your yourself, you pull your own cheeks, back in time. You tell her, 'You silly little girl!'. You do not mean to belittle her. You are no wiser. You are just more sorted, tactfully encrypted, covert and even conceited. Or perhaps, you are still fooling yourself.
Now, you must laugh at yourself again. You must rewrite. You must splash bucket-fulls on the walls of constructed identity. You must tear down the curtains of deceitful introspection. You must shake yourself back to her senses. Tell her, it never happened. Tell her, that it was never an incident to be dragged this far. It was never that important an encounter, not to anyone else! You tormented her, you beguiled her to this end. You must revert things now. You foolish little conjurer of tragedy, now pull it down! Grudge! Grumble! Snarl! Yell! Object! Fight! Fight! Fight.

'Love is not enough. Madness is enough. 
It is complete, sufficient unto itself.'
Well said, Mr Pinto, well said!


On Saturdays, you go back to Nothing. Really.


ike said...

Time is the locust that devours everything.

The single digits, the fairies, debts, detachment, disenchantment, Saturdays, conversations, strangers, tragedies, love, madness… even nothing.

The sea though unforgiving does not devour.

The sea engulfs.

ketamine said...

She would know.

So would you.

ike said...

Both do.

Silence then is void.

ketamine said...

'In a dream’s corridor.
Endless retreat of inaccessible feet.'

ike said...

From future and past

By land, sea and air
By sleight of hand
And turn of phrase
To this wholly present

Moment of grace.

ketamine said...

'Tread softly because you tread on my dreams'