And why do we meet such people?

Sometimes I feel that my life is just a flash back, that I am out there in that future with these memories twirling me back to this space, that I have already known you! Do you remember that cold night? We were sitting outside, my toes pressed in the soft grass, fingers twitching against its coldness; rifting water drops in between the green blades. I was narrating Woody Allen’s Vicky Christina Barcelona. You said you adored that man with that thick black frame, his raw talent and egotism. You said you have fascination for someone “different”, just because they are “different”. Our families’ subdued noise of laughter, loosened conversations and undulating arguments after the hangover of a typical friendly dinner oozing out from the house just felt like an uninteresting movie playing in the background. We didn’t see the stars. We didn’t see the moon. The breeze was not emotional enough to move the leaves. You told me to narrate the story in every detail, that you love detailing so much. You said I am a good story teller. I said you are a good listener. We complimented each other. So special to each other. Vivacious smiles, laughter, wonder, never pausing for what to say next, never disrupted by silence. Words slipping, stretching themselves, and slithering out of our mouths, it rolled and sparked and ablazed the air around us. It’s as if I have watched that movie in a lonely feverish afternoon, lying in my couch only to narrate it to you. I shook your hand and doubted if you were something illusionary. You said how you enjoy non-entities and abstractions. I said how I long to concretize those abstractions. You said you won’t usually put the lights on until the sun completely sinks into the ocean because you want the last of the rays to be fallen on your floor. You said you loved gloomy tree tops with their distant fragile looking branches and dreamt of painting one with a naked woman lying on it, with her flowing frizzy hair tightly entangled with the top boughs. There will be tinctures of orange, grey and blue, colors spilled and smeared in profusion in the sky, with some whiteness of the paper eying out. You talked about your crush with Vermeer and his interior lightning and Girl with the Pearl Earring. It was all too much for me to take in together. I told you to gulp down your words since it’s snatching away all that I want to say.

Why do we meet such people? Like two similar fishes colliding in an upsurging wave, being grabbed by an unknown hand, to be out in the air, amused, wriggled, only to dive backward to swim their own ways.  

I used to draw only blood dripping bird wings, broken glass pieces and barren trees when I was small. What did you draw when you were small? Did you have too much colours, vibrant and variegated? Do you have some bright shades with you so that I can mix it with my dark ones? Do you have silence? Do you have sorrow? My sorrow left my body, to make me “drab and destitute” and lurks somewhere in the dark, just to be back when you leave me. My silence lost its path, dejected, crestfallen and weeping; it’s no longer “a silence”.  I didn’t want to play hide and seek because the moments you are in hiding would be the longest ones to me. I didn’t want to seek because I would hurt something by my “intentional indifference” to the things hidden by intentions. My heart would get lacerated. I have to pretend that it’s not my heart at all. And it’s hard to pretend that something is not mine when it’s undeniably and pathetically mine, mine and only mine!

There is an idea of Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gave, and you can shake my hand and feel the flesh gripping yours and may be even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable…I simply am not there.