I didn’t think I could write this way again. Someone wrote long ago and said it is sad people who write. And true to this writer’s words, I was sad last time. I know you know what it was about, that last letter. How did you receive it? I should have been there to see your eyes glow. I missed the reactions. I should have been there to see your face when you realised it. Or perhaps I should have been more open with myself and with you, and told you everything from the moment the tiny sparks lit up.
They did light up many months ago. I don’t know when exactly. It must have been at midnight. Or a few minutes past. A night like this one. It was cold outside. I had arrived back late. Outside was foggy and I was angry at the weather as it made me fail to see the full moon. I sat down and got busy figuring out my life and thinking of mechanisms for hacking the future when the thought landed and I couldn’t get over it. It enveloped me. I could have typed down everything to you at that very moment, but I am a fearful soul. And you’re fierce. I decided to hold it down. “This will all soon be over.”
The over never came. Days passed and the sparks grew into flames. They burnt like sweet incense within me. Blue and yellow flames burning red flesh. They grew uncontrollable and the forest was ablaze within months. It was delirious.
I thought of telling you. You’re the only one who could call the fire department. You’re the one who could point the nozzle to the base of the fire and put it out. But I couldn’t get to you. You weren’t at the movies. Neither were you at the walks. I called you on Saturdays. I looked for you on Sunday afternoons. I tried to find you on Monday and Wednesday nights… I couldn’t talk to you on Friday evenings.
I am sorry I thought of giving up. I thought of a knife that could cut the links. I looked for a rope that could strangle the thoughts. And somehow I thought I found a way. A way out of everything. A way that made all of us happy. And since you are good at being a stone, I thought I found it. “Yeah, I am happy for you!”
You should have told me. Or at least you should have shown me.
I stood at the very end of the universe ready to fall in to oblivion and swim in infinity and here you were withholding. Here you were keeping everything to yourself. Talking of copper and zinc when your insides screamed gold and diamond. Why didn’t you write to me? You could have used your eyes. Or your smile. Or your hands.
Your smile could have sung to the creations on earth sweet tunes that would reverberate in the caresses of the winds and in the melodies of the birds. I would have picked the refrain from a stunning dove landing from the dazzling clouds and would effortlessly know that the message was from you. I could have heard your voice in the silent whispers of the winds… my heart would have felt you in the tremors and the quakes and the thunders. I wish you sung to me.
Volcanoes only erupt when the pressure builds up. And no matter how hard the surface is, when the magma has to leave, it has to. “How long have you had this?”
I hope life is treating you well.
I always said to myself “I will write again.” See now you’ve got me writing. Not because I am sad. That writer was wrong. Even happy people write.
See you in 1994.