Dear Love,
You asked what you saw in my eyes were tears. You wanted to know when did we meet for the first time. I keep searching in my “Mon.”
Slide your arm through mine like crochet and make an interlocking loop of affection. Tilt your head on my small shoulder. Let’s stroll through the snow-white meadow, a computing screen – interrupted with tiny black marks we agreed to call it language. There are more empty spaces as if silence and unspoken emotions convey more than I can construct by drawing, using alphabets and words! The walk is aimless; nothing may seem adequate except for our breathing and heartbeat. We could feel the intimacy with our eyes closed! I hope!
Perhaps my dictions are “Kipuka,” an island within a sea of lava flows, covered with soil and plants; otherwise, a sterile environment that is blessed from a second thought of the flaming lava. My psyche, burnings from searing lava-like grief of many regrets about Love, created a series of fissures in “Mon Amar.” I anchored in waiting, yes in waiting and making “Kipuka” for my limping, spiritless heart – a confused attempt, you could say. I dismissed every possible quest that I could have initiated to ease my cranium full of maudlin assumptions. I could have met, examine the path I was walking but without any angst. Instead, I bartered for an act of patience in waiting for my fantasy about Love to show up automatically in a tangible format. They could not have since I failed to even start, set, be at peace with my search for it, for the truth! I did not want to learn how to recognize, pay homage when they would show up to answer my quest. I may now articulate what that aporia in “seeking or searching” means, but uncertain if it matters anymore, even when we start anew! Time changes what once was, what furrow we draw for the future.
Only yesterday, it was last year. Now I am looking at four seasons long sun, winds, and change of colors. Meditating about rowing a boat with oars. That sailing always presents a clear view of the harbor where the vessel had been, and to keep it moving in a straight line is an unparalleled skill. The same applies to my life – not deviating from what I set out to do is no small feat, not at all! However, I am more bewildered that we sail through waters looking at the past. We have a fixed but not a clear view of where we had been then of the future we are heading. As if what was true once should now be so as well.
But my memories are misty from last year and many years before. I blanketed my mind with strewn of superimposed sentimental perceptions of events and the expanse of time. And built a collection of silhouettes of stories that might be true but without a plight – unable to gather souvenirs to validate and soothe my doubts about where I had been. Everything seems slipped away into disarray in my corner of the world! A result of not wanting my illusions destroyed. Living in captivity felt intimate with the useful delusion that served better than a useless fact: that the season wrapped around the space I held, or the moment now, must dissolve. Life ends.
For only the brave make peace with the truth before there isn’t another page in life to flip – I read. This wisdom is tucked in the brain’s creases and had not sipped into “Mon Amar” (my heart) yet. It may! Only a possibility, but best of hope to start this special day of the new year!
P.S.: Mon & Amar are Bengali words. Mon means heart and Amar means my/mine.