Where We Go After The Fall

Im praying you find this. Like I prayed I'd one day find you. 
I've always wondered what I'd say if I saw you again. If you'd remember me. If you'd remember us. 
I like to hope you would. 
But I also know it'll never happen. 
There's a man I met in China who told me he lights a lamp everyday in front of a photo of his dead wife. That he strikes a bell like any Buddhist does for a God. 
But he wanted me to know that he didn't worship her like he did when she was alive. But that he's grateful she's watching over him. 
I wish I'd known then what to say. 
Something impressive like I could've if you'd been sitting beside me. 

I wish we'd been to Bali. With a couple of journals and souls open to nearly anything. Maybe rented a motorcycle and seen more sunsets than we could have been bothered to count. 
Do you remember that conversation we had about how someone remembers somebody. As a smell, as a taste, as a sight, as a sound or whatever they may fathom. 
I always thought I was a sight oriented person. They eyes to your nose, if I may. 
But maybe we skipped something important. What if you love(d) the person you were remembering? Do the counts increase? 
I certainly do wish I had bottled perfumes of how you smelled on some days. But Im sure I can do without them. 
I think its the small things I hold on to most dearly. That favourite shoe. Your terrible spelling. Your choice of food at that place we'd usually end up at. 
The marks of a dog-eared page on forgotten novels. Those small sticky notes on my laptop screen every morning. 
Droplets of water flowing from you to me from a night in the rain. 

I wish I could ask you now, what you'd like for dinner. I wish I could bring icecream home tonight and not find it tomorrow.
I wish I could roll one, for two tonight. 

I wish you too would be startled by the sound of our son crying now. 

I like to believe that out of all the people in the world, you'd know best that words sometimes don't suffice. 
But there's a diaper that needs changing now. 

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I wrote this out of slight boredom. But I think Im happy with the result. 

The context of the story is left to the reader, ultimately. She could have gone somewhere close and the writer could have over-reacted. Or she could have gone somewhere so far, she possibly couldn't reply if she wanted to. 

I wish I could write a reply to this eventually, to complete the conversation. But its often hard to write as a woman. Or atleast through the words of a woman whose reply would be worth reading. 

Im on a week's (maybe longer) break at Muscat. I think that should be update enough haha

-
V
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Now Listening : Futures - Zero 7 and Nights Introlude - Nightmares on Wax
Now Reading : Nothing 
Now Feeling : Disconnected

Officer, My House Is On Fire

Normal things do not happen. 

Maybe you've never heard that sentence before because you weren't really wanting to. But now, you have. And whether you believe in it or not, it has affected you. Like a grain in the beach or a pimple on a teenager, it may be inconsequential, but it is indeed a difference. 

I spend 8 hours a day in a cubicle helping someone fix their electronic devices over the phone. 

I could write scandals on what people microwave. 

And vacuum cleaners really do find all the "dirt".

I've never seen shooting stars. But even if I did, I doubt I'd remember them. 

These are not the first words I spoke to the man now in my house. But they were the words I wanted to scream. 

I noticed he wore an impeccably clean suit. And I've never seen shoes that shined as much as his did. 
And his smile. Like he wasn't even there. 

"Please repeat exactly what you told the police, ma'am", he said. 

And I did. I told him that I got back from the grocers. And my hall was missing its TV. That photo of the scenery that I've never liked was torn. 

There was a fire but the sprinklers weren't on. 

It smelt like freshly popped popcorn and if my house weren't on fire, I'd have found some butter. 

But, there you go, my house was on fire.

I'm not crazy, you know. I thought I was, and I take a pill every night to make sure the tantrums don't happen. The result is that my mind processes emotions with a lag. 

Like an old computer game. 

It took a while for the shock to kick in and see that there was what would classify as an UFO inside my house. 

"Can I ask you a personal question, officer?"

"That's already a personal question, ma'am. But yes, you may."

"Have you wondered if everything is just a joke? That we are the end results of someone's poor sense of humour?"

I remember running down to call the landlord and then dialed 911. But I come back to my house to find it like I should have found it any other day, when I'm back from the grocers. 

I've never upturned my house. I've never moved and I've never packed. But that day I rummaged through my house like a man with a full bladder outside a pay-per-use toilet. (Yes, they exist)

The policeman only asked if I was regularly taking my pills. 

Even anger kicks in late. That's a good thing, most of the time. 

Suddenly, the policeman gets a call, and he takes a long meaningful look at me. The look a goat would give you before you slaughter it. I shall never understand what it meant. 

But I never heard from him again, and here you are. 

He took a sip of the mint tea that I don't remember making and said, 

" I do not like repeating myself so listen hard. And listen well. There are things in our existence, things smaller than your paycheck and larger than my imagination that exist side by side with us. Sometimes as the beggar you see who never ages. Sometimes as the mall employee who always knows where what is. 

Some times as a protector. And sometimes, not. 

It is my genuine desire to stroke your face, take you somewhere fancy and celebrate you for the crazy person that you're not. But alas, I don't have the clearance. 

You will not remember me after this. Neither will you remember the Incident. I'm only a cleanup, making sure you told no one else. 

I wish you well and hope that you always wait a second before you open a door."

**********************************

I close the door but I know not who visited. 

I wonder, though, if there's some popcorn in the house. 

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I'd like to think that you've missed seeing my words on your screen. And I shall further go on to apologize that I've begun writing more but I lose opinion on what to post here. 

I wrote this story as a small reminder that our belief or disbelief doesn't affect a phenomenon's existence.

It may continue to exist or it may have never existed at all. 

If you hands find themselves holding a book called Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman, read a story called Closing Time. You may like it.

And how the hell is it half past March already?

-

V

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Now Reading : Fragile Things - Neil Gaiman

Now Listening : Jeena Isi Ka Naam Hai - Anari

The 4th Movement (Glitch Mob Remix) - Krazy Baldhead

Now Feeling : Bored.