I read about you somewhere, somewhere where you are not supposed to be read.
I didn’t misread or mistook your name, no. It’s certainly not that. It’s more like I fantasized about you, but in a book? A novel? That too, a book like this! Never!
It’s not pornography if you’re thinking that. I can assure you that.
It’s much more passionate, this book, than some sex prone maniac junk. You’re above that.
In my fantasies, you are. In my bed, you might show some very contradicting stimulus. But that’s past. And I thought I had forgotten.
I didn’t know how it happened, I feel guilty. Yes, I remember we swore to never fantasize each other in these songs, in those books, in those stories that we hear, in those guitar strums, or those metal madness. We swore. Maybe it’s time I accept that it cannot be that way. The shaky fingers and the burden stricken head doesn’t run that way. I don’t know how it happened.
I was doing good. It happened yesterday afternoon by the way.
I was sitting on this chair, movable one, your shouts remind me though how you hated being on chairs that had wheels, paranoid enough to let someone take pills they have been throwing away. The chair, the one that got wheels in the bottom, its a superb ride. I was in aunty’s home, the one you hate. So. yup, definitely, yes, she was asking about you, she has been since last winter. I think she misses you sometimes. I didn’t know it got so bore in her world that she started missing you. But whatever, she was in the kitchen fetching me water, I know I say it exactly like a horse writing its diary, but whatever. But she was, okay, she was bringing me water, no grammatical nazism here please. Okay so, I was drooling on this chair, she got it from somewhere that her son traveled, I forgot, there are so many countries he has gone into, being the good kid of the family. Going abroad is a sign of success again now, now that you’re not here to defend my nationalist views, to defend the nature of what my heart wants and needs. Your forehead wrinkles were on point during those arguments with my family, and I used those to cover myself in the dark lonesome unsupportive family. But whatever. YES, I moved away now. Don’t mumble the blame game in your head please. That literally sucks. I can feel it. Stop.
Ah, so I was swinging like a kid on this chair, waiting for my glass of water, I did ask for a towel too, as it was raining, I hate my habit of forgetting the umbrella home, Don’t lecture me on then why did we purchase it, okay, I get it. But scold aunty too, she got me more water to drown into. That too, cold water, she got me this cold. Fucked up Totally, while I write this, I have sneezed and coughed like a thousand times. And also I am not intending to write this, just that this doesn’t make sense to lave it halfway. You know I’m a finisher.
So I bent to get my water, and suddenly I realized it was your perfume she was wearing. The same fragrance, how couldn’t I know. That smell is still somewhere in my shirts, the shirts I have actually kept to make my wardrobe a less stinky and more aromatic. And it works, it has been, since day one. Juggled my way into it, walking away from a deathbed. And I walked, with pride and ignorance, and too much of my nose getting bursting out due to not completing my respiratory cycle. But I somehow got over it. I did my best though. Your collar bones. however, were visible to me. You used to put your perfume there, much like how people put itr. But I trembled my way out of that aroma and shook my head to let it out. Aunty thought I am stoned, she doesn’t even know half of that. Stoned on some aroma, some memories, some collar bones, some stoner issues. So I bent to get my water, drank it half, and left it, like you complained every time, dude, you do curse me in your dreams. I can’t get over your miseries. But I got my eyes on the shelf just adjacent to the table. It was looking pretty, today, I remember your legs being all over the shelf at my place, while you read. Your legs moved continously. And I used to get impressions of the book from the expressions of your legs and knees. Your thighs being slapped by the shelf mat, and your shorts looking too short for a December evening. So that shelf. it got that novel, the book, the book I was telling about. The pages were dusty, and it really got that cool ancient look, the cover was strong, subtle, sedate, with a star illustration, with a word that didn’t get wholly onto it. It was misprinted maybe. Some pages were folded to the inside, USE BOOKMARKS, God, WHAT IS THIS WITH PEOPLE, REALLY! It was a little book but a heavy one, the more I felt it, the heavier it got, It got me some chills though. It was sudden, blinded, it was really not the matter of fact that it was rusty, but that it held something more magical on the inside. That hooked me to it. Some pages were coming out of it, some pages were torn, some were wrinkled, some were clean as snow, some where dusted like my sofa, DUH!
Meanwhile, aunty gave me looks that were hard to decipher, whether she was showing sympathy or was planning how to get me, or planning to secretly kill me from behind, it was some dilemma she was going through, and it was tasteless for me. I was holding a book, that just got hold of my heart, in an instance, in some decibels of sound waves, during only some contractions of my ventricles. Only some breaths. It wasn’t magical though, not completely. It was more of suspense, that what did it had inside. I was anxious, and yet was very critical of my eagerness, I hoped it did not have anything uninteresting, that’d just take my love away. I was scared, frightened to my guts, I was so in awe and it just could vanish in some seconds, in that moment, goosebumps boasted of having me on their arms. I was that scared. I did not understand though, that what can it hold. I wasn’t very supportive of my likeness to open it, but just couldn’t resist longer. In thousand years. I have only loved and was attracted to some, only some very particular things. Though I dismissed and shoved my ideas off sometimes, but I had no choice but to open it.
As I touched my first two fingers, its pages gushed. Swoon in the race of mindless thoughts, I opened, It was plane. BLANK. You could write anything in that. You are the poet of that script, and you could use it to any lengths you want your idioms to reach. You could just not write ever and blink and stare at the sacredness of the book, the diary. That got my heart racing on what to write on it, I was thinking of quotes, I just wanted to write something on it, something that could match the legend. I practiced cartoons on rough sheets, I swear I worked my mind in the directions it has never went to, towards pictures it has blindly captured, in thefts that it did not manage to see. in locked rooms that hid their own keys, I was completely mad.
I maybe thought I’d take it home and write something there. But then, when I looked around, I had lost it.
YOU WERE THAT BOOK(THE DIARY). tumblr_n189dpeaci1t11am1o4_250