When she writes, I wonder how much of me rests in her lines, making his way through the nooks and crevices of her script, tracing each syllable, tasting a word that teases, smiling at a sentence that means the opposite of what it says, but then again, this is just a thought like a bee that scrapes itself against my window mesh before going someplace else, like the lights on the Internet router just before there’s a power cut: blinking for a while and then darkness or a void, because I’m not literally present in her prose am I? And it’s only an idea of an ideal me that roams its hallways, treads on its carpets, rests, looking at the sunset on its gardens. Here’s the truth: My physical and psychical selves exist as a whole in a different time zone and place, and though our minds might connect, our hearts will never beat as one, unless she’s with me, on the same ground, her hand literally placed in mine, her beauty and elegance more than a snap, or a virtual or cognitive embodiment, but an actuality. So, for a minute there is a synergy, a collective intuition of sorts, but then I go back to my routine of coffee and cigarettes, my walks, my binge watching of Altered Carbon or Dark on Netflix, my girlfriend who cares or pretends, but is at least right here watching the news, and my graphic novels by Alan Moore or Joe Sacco, or my essays by Jonathan Franzen, or just my thriller by Gillian Flynn, and there’s a distance between all the things I’ve mentioned and me. Well, except the girlfriend.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)