Come, meet me.
What happens to milestones that are dead?
They don’t die, they are at their oldest when they are erected. They go on getting younger with each passerby looking at it. One day, it is too young to be noticed. We erect another old milestone a bit away from it. From that day onwards, the gaze shifts to the new one. The first milestone, now the younger one, go on to live a life away from all the limelight. This is why we don’t see dead milestones. I didn’t know of this till I was full twenty five years old and spent some time lying with my head on her lap.
Her lap was like the sky itself. Infinite, yet so close to earth. Accessible to everyone, yet so mysterious. A moment, she is clear. Then the clouds come. Rain, thunder, lightning rod - all meant to teach me something. At times, I see her eyes trained on the vast abyss that lies beyond her. I don’t know who she is. I may never. But one thing is certain, I need to be here forever. Hand in hand, legs up in the air, my left big toe inspecting the transparency of my ancient window panes. I need to lie close to her.
For a while, I realise that I had closed myself to the world. A bit too much, for a bit too long. And then she came along, opening me up like none else did. Not with her infinite wisdom, but through her own characteristic fallibility that I fail to grasp. She slowly tore me open, not with a surgical knife, but with her own life and experiences in which I saw myself. When she went to the particularly poignant parts, I kept wondering about the strange machinations of life that brought us close. So close, yet so far away. She’s literally minutes away. But I cannot move. I am just a phone call away. But she can’t do anything. I feel that death is as close to me as it was always to her. I don’t know what to do.
We are prisoners to our own convictions, my wrist watch is telling me. I kept checking him out of anxiety. I am just hoping that she’d call. This isn’t love, my journal is telling me. Just plain anxiety shrouded in longings that you don’t really understand - repeats my viciously rounded comb. We are prisoners to our own convictions, repeated the wrist watch. I look at my mobile phone, furtively. Then my beloved mouse and keyboard came in communion, and gave me this wise counsel.
This is what you should let her know.
You should let her know that you don’t love her - for you don’t know what love is. She should know that you trust her, but you cannot trust her right now. From trust comes the stickiest feelings that humans are capable of producing. You want to be close to her, but you cannot be seen close to her. Not by you, but by her. She is convinced of the duplicity of human beings. So are you. You cannot take initiative, for the baggage is too much. You can do nothing, but float till you manage to get hold of something. This is not love. But this is longing for sure. This could be loathing in a while. This could get both of you lost in no time. Get it?
Not really, I respond. This rant, could betray the most nefarious designs of my mind, that has always kept me a prisoner of my own feelings. These are golden chains that protected me from insanity. These are the golden chains that I want to lose now. If meeting you is insanity, let in be. Come, meet me.
I don’t love you; I don’t mean to hurt you. But I do want to see you. Come, meet me. I will be in this limbo till you do. Come, meet me.
(I found this in an abandoned trunk in my flat. I don’t know what this means, or how long this dude’s been suspended in his limbo. This means nothing, but I should say this - “Come, meet me, I am waiting for you.”)