Philophobia
I hope you never read this…
I hope you are doing well. I hope for a lot of things, but I put no trust in that hope. For hope appears fragile and delicate, but contains the power to destroy and raze the faith of many of the brave-hearted. There is a reason why the only thing left in Pandora’s Pithos was hope. The only thing we, as humans, still hold on to.
That being said, I would like to tell everyone, but you, about how much I feel like this was meant to be. We were meant to exist in the same universe at the same time. Do you remember when it used to be my favourite song, Everyone But You? That ran for a while, before it became Agar Tum Saath Ho?
That time when we danced in the rain? You, reluctant as ever; and me, dying of happiness. That time when you got me ice cream? Chocolate flavour. I hate chocolate flavour. That time we held on to each other and cried our eyes out as the walls of our house reflected the sounds of agony? The ones that everyone heard and the ones which drowned in a sea of silence (I still hear them from the icy depths).
It is true that you carry a little piece of that someone you love or have loved. You have left me with a piece of you which I carry with me everywhere I go. It is not as dramatic as I am making it seem; you are not the same person. One day, when we are old and wrinkled, we will sit down and laugh. Laugh at our life’s insanity. Laugh at how much I loved all of you.
They tell me to write. To pour my soul into these words I type. But will you read my story and take something with you?
I feel like true art or literature must have the power to move something within you. To give you a new perspective to look from, and wonder about the secrets of this universe and its parallels, if any exist. Will this hold that power in it, to change you even a little? Will it be worth letting you see through me?
I just wish that many years from now, when you tell your friends about all the times filled with silly laughter, you include me in them. And even for a moment, I wish to bring a smile to your face.
I’d love to be in your house of memories, even if we ever stop talking. I don’t want you to remember my silly jokes; just don’t forget the breathlessness, the ache in your tummy when we laughed too hard and the sounds of the city rain.
What you see in me are just hallucinations. It is you, the glowing night sky — twinkling in all its brilliance with its constellations. I am only reflecting your perfections. I know I’m lucky to have had you and still have some of you.
Structure would ruin you — it would take away the very essence of your existence. The charm, in the haphazard way that you are, intrigues me. I will let you run free with your wayward thoughts and eyes wild with mischief. This is just the way I want to remember you, like art. Like something I let myself drown in and ponder, Why are we here?
So, thank you for being the reason the birds keep singing, and for being what the sky’s been needing, for what you see in me are just hallucinations.
I feel like something on strings, posed by love’s fragile fingers and possessed by a frantic fluttering in my chest. I am renewed. I am not of rags or scraps. Pristine. I am something velveteen.
At this point, I don’t think that I am afraid to admit that I may be lost. While trying to find my way back to the street where I had once begun, I may have stumbled on the wrong path.
Or, maybe it is the right one.
Some things are beyond the comprehension of the human mind, and I am not angry about it. I am at peace. At peace with the realization that I may never get that peace with you around.
There is beauty in the way my breath catches when you smile; there is a riot in my heart when I hear you laugh; there is absolutely nothing peaceful about the way your eyes light up. All this sounded fake before, but you made me a believer. There is no calm before the storm.
There is calm in the storm.
Along with the numerous pieces of information that elude me, I know not how to bring this to an end. Some things that end are feared. Some things that end are desired. Other things that end are inane. Maybe I just never have liked the end of good things.
This piece was written in collaboration with Ashwin Shekhar.
