I’m walking on deserted, black sanded beaches. The waves are washing the ocean’s salty water over my feet. Already, my step is untraceable – it’s memory washed away at creation. Maybe I’m dancing; maybe I’m just wandering. I’ve walked into abandoned houses, breaking into an unknown history, marvelling at the decayed construction. I got lost in the Balinese rice fields, to the point only technology could bring me back to my temporary home; just to spend the warm sweaty night entangled in dreams of you. And as I wake, I collect these images as I would seashells that no current can take away. How backwards this paradise dream is: rain during the day, but a clear starry night. Just like how I am here, but you’re not at all. Yet, how I love this state of wandering wonder that took away all doubt that I’m at home with you.
The attic is bright and sunny, with all the roof windows over my head. I’ve opened them, so the calming summer breeze can chase its welcoming cool through the house. The sky is blue, only decorated with a few spots of white – it won’t rain for the coming days. The city’s sounds are safely tucked away far underneath me, I’m alone but not lonely.
I’ve been thinking about you a lot my friend. On how to explain to you how unbroken yet broken I feel, and if you possible could have an answer to questions I don’t even dare to raise in my mind. You’ve been an enigma I can’t seem to crack, and all the while it keeps me riddled how at home I feel with you. Whenever I see you, every time I see you.
So for now, all you do is make me smile in the most unexpected of times. For now, I’ll just think of you on this bright and sunny day, whilst the summer breeze is chasing in the city-sounds and fond memories. For now, I’m alone, but knowing we will meet again, I don’t feel lonely at all.
We met on the same place as four years ago. It’s a different life now, but it doesn’t matter because we are reliving the past. You smiled, put your arm around me – for some reason we’re still so used to each other. You smile, I smile, you talk, I talk – we talk. You pour me a drink – the same, but with a cruel twist of time and topped up with double meanings.
She walks in and you go back to her. You smile, she smiles, you put your arm around her – for some reason I’m surprised how well you know each other. You talk, she talks, she smiles again. I finish the drink and leave our history in the past. I go back to being myself, and you just went back to being the stranger I once knew.
The future is what will happen in the time after the present, which consequently means, we’re never really in the future. However, its arrival is inevitable due to the existence of time and the laws of physics. Due to the apparent nature of reality and the unavoidability of the future (by then not being the future, but referred to as the present), everything that currently exists and will exist can be categorised as either permanent, or temporary. We all are temporary, we know we are born – we know we will die. Therefore, the future haunts us; whilst at the same time fascinates us even more. So we try to grasp it, before it slips through our fingers into the present, down to the past. We dream, we fantasise, we schedule, we make plans. We fill in the time before it has even happened. We desire the ability to grasp a possible knowledge of what may come, instead of to let come whatever may.
This desire in itself is, at least to my opinion, extremely interesting, since it doesn’t necessarily tell us anything about the future. Instead, our desires come to light even when we evidently want to hide them.
The coffee reader was there to tell me everything I was hiding from myself. She lifted my cup from the saucer and asked me to think about my deepest wish. I was quiet, as I couldn’t think of anything to wish for. So she started telling me about the now, the past, and the future – but all the while all I could think about was the inability to come up with a wish. Whilst at the same time, feeling completely tranquil in this lack of desire. When was it that I became this content? The coffee wouldn’t speak up about that, nor did I want to raise the question out loud. It might even be a question not worth asking at all. All the coffee reader could do was continue a story. She sketched me a possible, lovely, future: a house, a man, a job, and a child. But most of all, I would be happy – and indeed I am.
I have always wondered why four is your lucky number. It’s not in your date of birth, nor an exact amount that ever proved to be of meaning for you – it was nowhere to be found, except for this sheer feeling of luck that was connected to it. It was a question you could never fully answer, so it became uninteresting to ask.
Why do people perceive taste so different, why do some of us enjoy sweets more whilst others enjoy crisps and other salty snacks? Is this connected to the taste buds, sense of smell, or is it wired in our brain – how our receptors work?
How much can we change whilst staying the same? Is there really a core ‘self’ that is impossible to shed? How much have I changed in a year, rethought, retouched, and rewired – but still not much of a sweet tooth. Where are the borders of change, and if they at all exist, are they solid, or shifting?
Could it be that your lucky number connects to the four seasons, that it fills a year? In this past year, have you reinvented your own self – rebuild you – deleted an old identity? Have you shed your past, or do you still think of me?
Just briefly it felt like spring. Was it due to the sudden rise of temperature? Was it because the sun finally won the battle against those boring light-grey clouds of winter? Or was it Valentine’s Day – Did it feel like spring because butterflies briefly upset my stomach when I heard your distant, uninterested voice?
He, on the other hand, wakes me up by softly kissing my neck. We wander on a wonderful adventure in this state of half-sleep. His warmth is welcoming, chasing winter out in an alternative way. He sent me flowers, so I smiled every time I walked past them. We had breakfast in bed, pleasantly surviving on our tiny island away from the world. When he leaves, there is no sweet talk, no saddening goodbyes. He will be back for philosophy, red wine, late drunken nights, and body language.
Yet, he doesn’t shake me. He’s not in my daydreams – he’s just there. He is my wonderful temporary comfort. His goodbyes are not soul-crushing, his absent not devastating. He does not leave me delusional from longing. He is not you, because you are everything, except here.
I felt like writing to you,
but deafened the urge.
So now I sit in loneliness
awaiting your call.
I can’t remember your voice,
but you must’ve sound like
because the haloesque vision of you
can’t seem to dim.
You’re the drug I want to kick off
The memory in that drunken song.
You’re my locked up elephant
I dare never to speak off.
You’re the broken windshield
that doesn’t annoy me anymore.
The dangers are just around the corner,
I’m living life on a western edge.
A first world problem:
I would put myself on a diet for you,
but you wouldn’t even notice
in those jeans.
So there you leave.
Too early for breakfast,
too late to call it a night.
You look even better with a hangover.