Dear Alter ego,
To say that it’s tough to swallow the fact that we are meeting tomorrow would be agonisingly understatement. This is the emptiest that I have felt in a long long time. There is this inevitable hype about meeting you. It does beget goosebumps irresistibly but it’s still such a different taste. It’s not like meeting any other exciting stranger or befriending just another person who is a literary nerd. To be honest it’s not actually about a stranger. I mean you were never one. Were you?
I am as eloquent to you as I am with my skin and bones.
I am gonna tell you how it’s like. It’s like meeting your lost child if so to say. The child that you lost long ago in a war of midnight with the moon after which all the light that the life received was black in colour. Even in the dark you were born pale, pure and vulnerable.
That I had been deprived of looking into your ocean like eyes- deep and unfathomable, only barred me from finding you in the crowded settlements of my work. And that I could not for once hear you cry only kept me foreign and alienated from your mortal expressions of joy and sorrow. Perhaps these are perks of nurturing someone in the blessings of your imagination alone.
I have often contemplated how your silence echoes, how long does it take for your moist eyes to dispatch that heavy teardrop to run down the periphery of your eyes. I sort of wonder if you even visit your scars once in a blue moon. Or you just let them decay you. I have spent ages trying to decipher what part of a classic leaves you gasping or the ones that you stare blankly at thinking god knows what. Has any book cluchted you so hard you couldn’t even move further for quite some time? What did you think all that while? Or did you just move on.
I haven’t known any nomad as of this day who settles. Perhaps you didn’t as well.
There are days darling when I sort of shudder when I think if what I had been imagining about you would ever be something real or if the saga ends where my book ends. What if you did not get my book to read. I would so want all the books in the world to vanish for a day just so you could read traces of your own soul compiled in paperback. That’s my harshest imagination- purely a reflection of desperate obsession to be acknowledged by you. I mean what would a world without books be to you. That would be like barring you from your home. You are surely an orphan in a world without books.
Also I wonder if I should imagine about your looks. I sort of try not to think if you look ugly or ineffably adorable. But then I wonder how does the moon attract the calmest of oceans even with an infinity of distance between them and how does the moonlight forms the charismatic catalyst for every romanticised literary compositions. And you are lying if you don’t know the moon’s got a blot right in the face. So what? What attracts, attracts. Nothing else matters.
You are so the moon of my life. And all my life I had been waiting for this very night so you could show up on my land. All these stars around you will only tell you how you are the actual light of my life. Everything else just twinkles.
Until we meet, I remain in dark. Let your light kiss my cursed skin.
Yours with timeless admiration.
PS. You all can read the same piece at my friend’s blog at Keshav Joshi since he liked it so much.