Muse

What a friend you turned out to be, one I never quite imagined at all.

It is the thought of you that keeps me from my craft, impressing a desire to write of our friendship. Admittedly, it is not only today you occupy, but the various yesterdays.

Friend of a friend, connection loosely strung over the social network. Converse we do, and we find ourselves in an interesting situation — while mostly strangers, we are much alike.

Gradual texts of a growing length, subjects aplenty. Music, books, and even the question of life itself. Who would guess that these two reticent humans would find each other?

In real life we hardly meet, constant lurkers of the online space. Yet I forget not the day you came for a significant event when another thirty would not. Despite the traffic and the pouring rain, your arrival meant a great deal to me. The only one of them all.

You asked then confused at the scene, why did you invite me here?

I replied poorly in my concealed gratitude, why not?

Why not, truly.

Distance increased over the years, and while our speakings dipped with the trough and peaks of life’s tidal wave, what wonders a simple message would do. A reconnect, tardy as some may be.

It is possible that I may never be coherent enough to express your importance in my life, especially when we are not close in relations in the end. But bless you I do, in these secret writings and feelings.

Un du evari’nya ono varda.

May the stars watch over you.

Play hide and seek with me, the favourite game of every child.

Teach me how to find not with the eyes but the heart.

There is a warmth lingering in this stillness that I am in want for.

Stay, please stay in gentle patience until my fingertips align themselves with yours.

Lean in, whisper goodnight to the flecks of light outside.

Know that home lies in the crook of my collarbone.

Don’t forget how angry injustice makes you feel. It’s terrible how crimes need to be judged by severity, when wrongs against humanity are the scum of the earth.

A woman’s sense of pride is scorned, when one speaks of indecent glances. Women are pages in the catalogue, perused and felt up to the corners. Eyes are made to travel, don’t go feeling special or personally targeted.

We are bodies made of stardust, and some take more in the name of entitlement. A skirt too short, a figure too svelte, it must be her fault that hands desire to lean in for an impolite touch.

Girls are indecisive, they say, girls know not what they want. Others take their voices and speak in false mellifluous promises. It’s easy to know what they need, turn their loud no-s into secret yes-s. Catch one alone, in a crowd if there is a sense of daring.

In this world, the voice of a female falls on deaf ears. The wrongness committed has become a norm and there is no need to raise a fuss, unless the case strikes as strange or unexpected. Late nights and teenager years are too ordinary to be given a second thought.

Yet it remains unjust, that in an era of spaceships and underwater kingdoms half the population have to be afraid simply for being a woman. Things shift in time, be it gold dust or night constellations, and so I will continue to hope for better tomorrows for the sake of the future generation.

People are afraid of being alone. Visit the city, that’s how one will see.

The sole ones rush quickly, earphones in, phone on the ear, the downcast face of shame. In a world so connected, solitude is a sin and loneliness is the immoral conclusion perceived.

Or must it be? For being alone happens to be my affection.

This is my secret: that in a space colossal and imbued with human energy, I stand still to watch it all. Instead of running and dashing about, my feet grow roots. I wish to recognise the life of this immense atmosphere.

On the park bench, on the windy pedestrian bridge, these places find my soul slow to a halt. I appear in their memory a flitting image, but to me they stay a little longer. These are lives by the abundant and they are stories I will never unravel. These moments can make me weep.

If I could, I would be in want to touch as many lives as possible. There’s incredible potential in one, how much more shall there be in a group? Crowds overwhelm me, but in my staring I am hopelessly enchanted. I cannot comprehend this enormity despite my best efforts.

I am happily alone in the city, but if you are willing — would you watch the city with me?

Paradoxical creature that I am, set on caring for the entire world yet hiding like a timid mouse in the corners of my complicated mind. What is one supposed to do when the heart can no longer handle such a massive amount of loving.

Teach me to stop running when the shadows loom frighteningly large, to accept the apparent favour of another. Please stop my ears from hearing what others cannot.

My eyes, they perceive meaning in things unmeant. Tile floors have shapes and house bricks display signs. As anxiety builds, sometimes the ground rushes up to meet me. And so I fall.

How is it that my ability to function varies so immensely?

Hush now, let us feel the silence for a little while. Can you feel the heart beat? It radiates and colours these four walls.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

We are clockwork beings. Gears churning in our busy heads, springs of coiled energy impatient in fists and feet. There is iron running through our veins.

The human time is ephemeral, a root for fear. There is a people scurrying to outlive the countdown, outpace the stopwatch. Herbs and spices they employ, incantations and surgical knives will another seek.

There are three types of people in the world. Those who take deep calculated breaths, or those who are trying to catch them, or those who lose them.

And I am caught somewhere in between the three.

While it can be terrifying to see each person’s motor become undone in due time, borrow a little of that time to touch the silence.

Despite the changing of seasons, even the falling of autumn leaves will make the fearful realise that quiet dance of the clock is one to love.