Life Itself

You know the real me? The one underneath all those layers? The real me that feels safe, secure and happy? The real me that doesn't care or wonder about your intentions? The real me that has an unconditional need to give? The real me that smiles at simple things and needs basic memories? The real me that cherishes old letters and torn photographs, that never throws away a thing? The real me who could sit by an ocean forever? The real me that loves to laugh till my stomach hurts? The real me that enjoys the sun on a cold winter morning and would be happy to laze on a bed in the lawn all day? The real me that loves to dance but only when no one is watching? The real me that can stare endlessly at the night sky? The real me that can sense and feel everything? That real me is the me I love you from.

Something you said struck me. 'We don't usually talk about these things to each other so reading all this intrigues me, like you are a different person.' So I am wondering. Is it that I am a different person in writing than I am in reality? Or is it that there are so many versions of me that if two friends were to describe me independently, they wouldn't be able to tell that its the same person they are talking about? Lately I have been thinking about this a lot. About what's my first impression on someone. Whether I come across as arrogant, as friendly, as warm, as cold. Sometimes what you think of yourself and what others think of you can be so diametrically opposite that it seems almost like someone is lying. And then you dig deeper and you ask the basic question. Are you coming across a certain way out of defense? Are you trying too hard, thereby defeating the purpose? Life has a strange way of bringing us to our demons and making us stare long enough that t

You know how you and I laughed until sunrise, through all the disaster? That's how I want to spend the rest of my life. That moment with ants crawling on you, with the coffee in my hands and the vast expanse everywhere we looked. That's how I want to talk every evening. Or that story you told her about us while I looked on baffled. I want that to be our real story. The secret superman moment or the crazy star gaze. I want those to be forever moments. The way you pulled me, firmly, far, but close, or the way you held me. That's how I want to feel everyday. Your intense intensity, your gentle gentleness, your sincere sincerity. You, in all your you-ness, just the way I like it.

Sitting in a moving car, reading, listening watching. Thinking. There, that's the tough part. Talking in a random conversation, analysing, dissecting, questioning, completing. Listening. There, that's the tough part. Walking into a room full of strangers, smiling, staring, pretending, shuffling, hiding. Security. There, that's the tough part. Starting something new, passionately, aggressively, relentlessly. Completing. There, that's the tough part. Waking up, fully energised, ready to go, to conquer everything. Early mornings, there that's the tough part. Loving for the first time, consuming, filling up, falling. Staying, there that's the tough part.

Every year, I think about you. Not too many times, but consistently, a few times. And each time I am not sure how I should feel. There is a vague sense of loss, a subtle tinge of abandonment, a painful realisation of independence. But mostly, there is just a numb nothingness.   Who were you? I am not even sure I remember your face. Your smile, yes. Your eyes, too. But in pieces, in context. I can't imagine your reaction in a new situation. I can't see you as you may have become. I can only see the frozen moments that I have embalmed in my head.   I wonder if you feel the need to see me. If you imagine what it may feel like to talk to me now. If you wish you had known me all this time. If I am even a real person to you. If you have convinced yourself that I don't exist.   Perhaps it isn't as simple as moving on, as erasing, as avoiding. Maybe it's an intense removal, a complete denial. I don't hate you. I don't love you. It's an absence of anything ta

I remember that time. You and I both woke up so early in the morning. Maybe it was 4 am. Who knows. We spoke like it was the last time we would get to talk. And I remember crying. Not because I was leaving, but because I was leaving you behind. Who knew, 15 years later, nothing would change. Yes, we grew up. Yes, our lives became more difficult, more complex. Yes we made new friends. Yes, we went in different directions. But today, as we sat together, I knew nothing had really changed. You were still looking out for me. I was still my slightly forgetful, slighty spaced out, very excited self. You were still your very eager, very caring self. With some people, life changes things. With others, the foundation is so strong that it's impossible to shake. You fall in the latter category. No matter where we go, the ease with which we can simply coexist and talk about nearly anything, is one of a kind. To me, that's real friendship.

I don't know what it's about the sea. But when I stand on the sea shore, there is a strange, never ending calm that begins to wash over me. It's not like the sound of water by itself is soothing, or the salty wind in my air is exhilarating. But there is something simple in that moment that makes me feel at ease. A feeling that is usually hard to come by.