Travel light, said the seer. So in this moment of transition, you commit to unpack and discard, treat nothing and no one as you possession. You pick what you need, and put them in two bags. Everything else, a galaxy of memories you shut tight inside your chest.
Here are two old posts that I have taken down, and thought maybe it’s time to revive them – and hopefully draw out a desire to go back to writing just for the sheer pleasure of it. And maybe, blog again?
An Open Love Letter
Today, I woke up with a persistent buzz inside my head. I knew immediately that a shift in my world happened, a not-so subtle change. It was not in the morning news but I noticed that the pillows on my bed were already conferring with each other, trading rumors in whispers.
While preparing breakfast, the bowl from the shelf stared back with a naughty smirk. As I poured milk on my oatmeal and muesli, I swear I heard them giggling – was it them or the trippy buzz in my head – and they only stopped when they saw me looking. Poets have claimed that rivers sing, but today oh believe me it was the faucet that I heard, releasing a melody that the sink gladly embraced. Even the fan nodded its agreement: today I woke up with a psychedelic buzz inside my head.
Outside, while walking to the office, a jogger leaped, landed in India, and discovered that butterflies and lovers have the same origin. The traffic light dismantled itself and discarded its lights, replacing them with images of the vast sky and summer sunsets. The alley cats walked on walls, declared their sovereignty, and marched for the moon. The newsboy sold tabloids that screamed poetry in red. I must have wondered out loud about the dazzling buzz in my head because the sun suddenly issued its ruling, final and executory: love cannot be denied.
As a man of reason, I chose to ignore it all. I walked past the cheering crowd that greeted the decision. The clouds declared a holiday and exploded into feathers; I skipped their celebration. I walked straight to my office, poured a cup of coffee. It was only then, as I was drinking the sour bitterness of my coffee in the stillness of the room, that the buzz in my head revealed its syllables: all along it was saying your name, your name, your name.
And so he was asked
And so he was inevitably asked, “What is love?”
My feet turning into clay, he said, every time his name is uttered. A dervish whirling inside my chest. My heart in deep meditation, silent and solid as a rock. Poems that when broken into stanzas, into lines, into syllables, reveal his name. Souls that for the first time discover the art of flying.
A mind that realizes that the heart is a beating compass, the only one that can navigate his skin. South is where my foot teases the arch of his heels; north is the direction that this train of murmurings takes, from his lips to my ears.
And where does it end, they pressed.
With all the goodness of this Earth contained in the first of many embraces, he said, and with all the goodness of this world sealed in one last kiss. It ended and began when he sidled next to me and asked if he could read with me the book I was holding, and turning a page suddenly became a mutual decision. With love’s joyful confusion, with and love’s confusing joy.
And so he was asked when it does end, what happens next?
You still wager on love. You always do.