It is merely a meager attempt in writing. Words slip through my fingers and I notice how inadequate it is, articulating thoughts and memories which only reveal themselves incomplete. And when I talk about death, I end up snickering. Another strange behavior, another eccentric habit and the same old Freudian strip.
When people ask me ‘how are you’ and ‘what have you been up to’, a spotlight shines momentarily on my life only to unravel mundane meanderings, ‘I’m fine’, ‘Just the usual’. These ontological queries have been asked too many times, haven’t you noticed and they keep asking and no one really knows the answer and if they do, it’s not true.
But it is those mundane meanderings that I love precisely because you are in them: the auto-pilot trips to the bookstore, over-determined plot of what happens after classes on Friday evenings, the endless questions to which I think about even during bathroom breaks and then I say exactly what comes to mind while we ponder about ~life~ on a park bench late at night. There’s too much I don’t know and understand. I see your face, hear you speak and I’m baffled still at how strange and elusive we are. Such pretentious beauty. Such beauty. How predictable. How lovely. How unattainable you are in my arms. How this then becomes why and your answers are all around you, in fact, they are close by.
We are the cosmos. The most inconsequential beings. We are evidently nothing and all that ever matters.