Writing is therapeutic. And so is poetry reading and writing. On nights like these, when I am too lost wondering about life, perceived slights, and losing people, I think about the futility of what is (fondly?) referred to as life.
And so I write this piece. Heads up, this is fictional. And it is about ambiguity and absurdity that rules us humans. Like a pendulum we move, to and fro, from delight to sorrow to interspersed moments of neutrality and back again to repeat the same cycle.
You died. I cannot believe you are dead. I keep repeating this to myself, that you are dead, and it sounds as absurd as it sounded the very first time. And I wish I had told this to you directly but there was never a good time, and now it is too late. So here it is.
I close my eyes and the immediate picture that comes to my mind is yours. Your smile that often looked mischievous. That little twinkle in your eyes and the little crinkles around your eyes. I keep thinking of those questions I should have asked when you were alive. I never asked you what your favourite dish was. Well, knowing you, you probably would have lied about that too *insert fond, if not exasperated smile*. I never asked you if you ever slapped anyone. Knowing you, you would have, I am sure. I never got to ask you, if you ever cross dressed. But I think I saw a photo of you in a frock when you were little.
So, dear you, I miss you. You shouldn’t have gone at the time you did. Life is unfair. It takes away good people long before their time. I wouldn’t have called you a good person a couple of months back, but your untimely death prods me to forgive you.
I have no idea why and I cannot go on about how much you meant to me. You know what Marquez said, right? Bad is eliminated, good is amplified, that is the blessing of carrying the burden of the past. So, I remember all the bad times, how can I forget? But I remember the good times better. I know you are at peace now, though. You craved for death, right? I remember thinking what a fool you were. But I see the point. I really do.
I dedicate these lines to you. I hope you find peace in death, peace that you couldn’t find whilst alive.
Time spent near the fire
Those coffees, on the house
Sparring, so inconvenient
Letters of warmth,
a dead beat.
I am still as confused about you as I was when you were alive. Pardon me. Will it suffice it to say I loved you, but did not, and yet, I did, but I didn’t?