Zugunruhe

Silence only lives beyond the realm of auricular breadth. It is not devoid of sound; it is an invitation to concede the boundaries of the hearing spectrum. Embrace the silence; oh my Love, our whispers dwell in it! The gap between our physiques is soaked with the warmth of tenderness; only endurance could let us discover how to embrace. Our gazes through the “Moni” reveal the most profound glaring void of the soul. So, yes, the shine you noticed in the eyes is indeed tears, but you wanted to know when we met for the first time and how many eons have passed since. Only closed eyes, slow breaths, and a genuine surrender to the “Mon” in rumination may yield an answer for the patients. Do you, my Love, hear the sound of my heartbeat while I glide through memories for an answer? Or do the winds snatch the wave from reaching you and leave you alone? Here is the thing: once we bathe in Love, we may dry out of it, but the aroma lingers—always in our senses—like many of our wishes that did not come true, leaving us empty, yet we keep remembering them. There is no transgression to visit those yearnings. The longing for your intimacy is inexhaustible; I used to live there once, in your presence under the starry sky.

Before entropy nabs you away from me, would you slide your arm through mine like crochet and make a closed loop of affection? Lean on my shoulder to settle. We would stroll through the snow-white meadow—a never-ending field of computer screens. The white spaces on it are interrupted with scars from our language, which we made out of alphabets and rules to express our burning inside. The blanks on it scream as if silence and unspoken emotions convey more than we can construct by drawing, writing, or with vernacular! Let us still wander in this landscape; we want to discover our destination.

Perhaps my dictions about these feelings are like a “Kipuka” – an island that survived with plants and a bare breast of soil in the sea of boiling lava streams. Without the sudden pause of the fiery march of lava, the Kipuka, the land would have been a sterile backdrop for a more extensive terrain. The existence of greenery in the patch sprouted from the blessing of the second thought of flaming molten waves. The ground of my psyche, too, burned from the searing lava-like grief of regrets about you and about Love. When you caress my heart with your devotions, you must feel countless fissures from aches in “Mon Amar.” To cope, I anchored in waiting—yes, in waiting and making “Kipuka” with the memories of your affection for my limping, spiritless soul.

Younger me dismissed every possible quest that could have incited to ease the hoarded maudlin of assumptions in my cranium about our relationship. I could have examined the path toward you without angst. Instead, I bartered for an act of patience, waiting for my fantasy about you—my “Love” to show up automatically in a tangible format at my door. As if I somehow earned the gift. I could not have. For the certitude, I failed to start, set, and be at peace with my search for you. Ignoring that no love can sustain existence without nourishment from the truth and the resolute efforts to seek it! My avoidance of discovering how to recognize and pay homage when they—the good fortune, you, the love—would turn out to be a lazed posture for a miracle.

Only yesterday, it was last year. Now I am looking at the four seasons of sun, wind, and change of color. Day in and day out, sailing through the waves of time, a clear view of the harbor where my vessel had been is unmistakable. I am baffled that I have been floating through life, looking at bygone periods as if what seemed genuine once should now be so. Many decades later, since my first breath on this earth, I may now articulate what that aporia in “seeking or searching” means, but I am uncertain if it matters anymore, even if we could start anew! The abrasions of time change what once was and what furrow we draw for the future.

I am older today, and my memories are misty from last year and years ago. Those memories are blanketed with strewn, superimposed sentimental perceptions of events and the expanse of time from my younger years. The collection of silhouettes of stories of my life might be accurate, but without a plight. How could I validate where I had been with no memento and soothe my doubts about how life went by? Everything has plunged into disarray because of a lack of grip. Still, I did not want my illusions destroyed. Living imprisonment with the delusion felt intimate and served me better, so it seemed, than a useless fact: that the season wrapped around the space I held, or the moment “now,” must dissolve into nothingness. As I approach my departure with every breath, the Zugnunruhe jump-starts at full speed in “Mon Amar” for the next chapter. I welcomed things I knew wouldn’t last and tried to hold on to them tightly. Those things, too, slipped away—that is what time does: constantly take away drip by drip. What choice do I have but to dream about Love, stay in Love, with Love, even when I bid farewell?