I think about you. At times, I am thinking all day. Between talks, between breaths, between blinks. Guess that happens when you’re daydreaming, about fantasies, about impossibilities, endlessly. With me, though, there are prolonged spells when it is hard to tell if I really want them or if I just love the idea of them. Of how they make me feel. As if I am free to fly with the wind, any way I want, go any where I want. As if there’s nothing stopping me. No limitations. No punctuations. No reservations.
I allow myself the bliss. I wallow in it and see my heart smear itself with unknown joys, unfelt sensations. I know it is happy. I want it to be. Because I can’t remember the last time I gave it what it craved. Sometimes, it has things its way. Most times, I have it my own. And I feel it again. A slight twitch. A sweet shiver. And I know it is thinking about you again. This exploration of probabilities is endless. Just like, this happiness is senseless. But I forget it all and join in.
The more I know you, the better I want to know. Even though I don’t exist even in the smallest fraction of your days or nights, your breaths or beats. For me, you rule them all. But of course, you don’t know it. Although I know just how heartbreaking it all is, I think about everything I still want answers to. For a second, I remind myself that I don’t care if I mean naught to you. The very next second I want glimpses of those little things you miss about yourself, those trivialities that make you, you.
Sipping the last of my black coffee, I stare a bit too long at the final vestiges that cling to the walls of my mug. Next time it better be a white mug, I tell myself. Do you even like black coffee? Do you take it with cookies? The last drops run down to the brim and circle the rim. Do you sleep when you travel? I hate to be woken up and told that I missed my stop. Can’t imagine the embarrassment! Some exotic beans just sacrificed themselves for me but what do I care. Of course I read while waiting for my salad. But I’m sure, you scan the surrounding faces. But I don’t know what you are thinking after that. Because when I’m reading, it is simple, obvious – I am thinking about the scene, the erratic or eclectic character, the unsolved murder, etc. Care to tell me about the story in your head? Ah, how I wish I was Sherlock!
Days bounce off, like bees on buds. They find me naive. Who else would love to be fixated on fiction. But such is reality. It is a kind of story, isn’t it? The most mundane, most predictable, like some of those books where you already know who killed who. But in this reality; the one that’s about you, I am yet to connect the dots. I am yet to dissect. Put those pieces together, and see what I get. I have a long day. The mind has its own. I know it won’t rest. Until it unearths some more of those little trivialities. Until it sends those little letters to heart. Until they both become one, for one ephemeral moment. Until they are the pirates to plunder those trivial treasures.