Taym

Silence lives only beyond the realm of our acoustic capacity. It is not bereft of sound; it is an invitation to concede the boundaries of a wave spectrum. We might be standing close to a sound wave but not hear a ping because our ears are not sophisticated enough to decipher it. Or, the wave could be far away and have dissipated before reaching us. Without it, there would not be any music—the gap or the silence between audible notes is as essential as the instruments musicians play.

Oh, my Love, hug the silence; our whispers dwell in it! The gap between our figures is soaked in the warmth of tenderness—only endurance could let us discover how to embrace all there is. Gazing through our “Moni” reveals the most profound glaring void of the soul, so the shine we notice in the eyes is indeed tears.

To yield an answer, let us close our eyes, be patient, breathe slowly, and surrender genuinely to our “Mon” in rumination. When did we meet for the first time, and how many eons have passed since? Do you, my Love, hear the sound of my heartbeat while I glide through memories for an answer to your question? Or do the winds snatch the wave from reaching you and leave you alone? Know this: once we bathe in Love, we may dry out of it, but the presence 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 again and again. Time and time again, the longing for your intimacy makes me only sulk. I used to live in your presence under the starry sky.

Before entropy ultimately snatches you away from me, which it must do, slide your arm through mine like a crochet and make a closed loop of affection. Lean on my shoulder to settle and rendezvous at the white meadow—a computer screen, a never-ending field. We would wander in this landscape with the hope of reaching our destination. The screen’s empty spaces are filled with letters and characters to express our thoughts, yet the blanks are many, like unspoken emotions, to convey more than words can.

Perhaps the dictions of my feelings about you, my Love, are a “Kipuka”—an island survived with plants and bare breasts 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 of scorched earth. But greenery in the patch sprouted from the blessing of the molten lava’s second thought. My psyche, too, burned from the searing grief of regrets about you, about Love. When you caress my heart with tenderness, 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. That is all I knew. Younger me dismissed every possible exploration that could have stirred to ease the stockpiled maudlin of assumptions in my cranium about our relationship. I could have explored the path towards you without angst. Instead, I bartered myself at the feet of patience, waiting for my fantasy about you—my “Love” to show up automatically in a tangible design at my door. As if I had earned a gift. I failed to start and made peace with a pursuit for you in my mind. Ignoring that no love can flourish without nourishment from the truth and the resolute efforts to seek it! Love emerges from grinds. Grief midwife love in our senses. Any avoidance of discovering how to recognize and pay homage to good fortune like Love must turn out to be a lazed posture for a miracle.

Yesterday, it was last year. Now, I am staring at the four seasons, the sun, the winds, and the changing colors. Day in and day out, I would sail through the waves of time with a clear view of the harbor where my vessel once docked, perplexed at my floating temper, looking at bygone periods as if what seemed genuine once should always 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 you and I could start anew! The abrasions of time change what once was and what furrow we draw for the future.

As I get older today, 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 and soothe my doubts about how life went without mementos? Everything has plunged into disarray because I lack any grip on reality. Still, living imprisonment with a delusion felt intimate and served me better, so it seemed, than a useless fact: that the season wrapped around the space I occupied, or the moment “now,” must dissolve into nothingness. I lived, welcomed metiers that wouldn’t last, yet tried to hold on to them tightly. All things slipped away—that is what time does: take away, drip by drip, what is dear to our hearts. Now, in twilight hours, every breath seems borrowed, and the Zugnunruhe for the next chapter began in “Mon Amar” at full speed. Along with seeking forgiveness, I am left contemplating Love, staying in Love, and being with Love until I cannot walk, make sense of words, or my sincerest stare becomes inanimate.