I am the chaos and you are the cosmos

Friday, March 25, 2011

For the eighth wonder of the world:

I could really try to write you, but they would never be able to see you like I do. The sinister look on your face when you're up to no good, the way the shadows fall so perfectly under the lines and curves of your skin, the way you break out into random, irrelevant songs that are on your Current Obsession on your playlist at the most inappropriate moments. Above them all, the way you like to think of the world in an alternative light - Could there be someone in this world who is doing exactly what I'm doing right now? There has to be someone mouthing the same exact words as I am now. - the way you're scared as hell about some things yet recklessly throw yourself at it. How is it that you entrust your trust into people so easily?

I adore the way we talk as though we're about to cause a revolution. (We are a revolution.) The way we have created an alternate universe for ourselves while being fully aware of our realities. It softens me, really, when you get so vexed about the turmoil going on around the world and speak with such indignation in your voice, as though you've ever experienced such unthinkable injustice. I often muse about how you'd entertain my feminist ways and put down your own, readily acknowledging the devastation that men have caused in this world instead of fighting vehemently for your own gender, all despite having been hurt by a myraid of oestrogen - driven beings.

You take on the world, naively challenging its force to descend upon you so that I may escape unscathed. Which is it - your over-estimation of your capabilities or your overbearing will to protect me from every, single evil of this world? - I can't decide. (I am thinking of the way you speak of these as real threats out to get me, in all seriousness) It amuses me, the way you are so level-headed and serious(deceiving the world), yet are capable of doing the silliest things beyond my imagination, sometimes to irritate, other times to entertain and try your luck at bolting a laughter out of me. Yet under this sensible layer you can be quite the reckless child that you are, in your occasional incapability to reason out your narrowed perspectives. You take after your father's stubborn, absolute nature. I don't ever want to be like him. Yet, you express the innate fear in every son that resists the propensity governed by nature to propel toward a particular characteristic which you've been deeply scarred by.

I love how you ruminate upon my words and give it such weight and thought, bothering to address it despite being plagued by fatigue. You romanticise me, put me on such a pedestal I dare not set foot on. You're the most captivating speaker I know of in the entire world, screw Hitler. And how you so vividly remember the things that I say, even those in passing. (Sometimes you twist my words in your paraphrasing but I forgive you) You willingly allow me to assume superiority and assert my privileged authority over you. I know you love to be in power. But I know, I know too well how you patronise me sometimes, feigning defeat and powerlessness to satisfy my inherent desire for female empowerment.

You are always self - entitling yourself. As though everything legitimises at your proclamation. You couldn't care less. This had always baffled me, until I discovered that beneath that care-less facade you actually do care, and the facade is your shield, your pride, your vulnerabilities. I envy your ability to detach, and discard the hurting past. What is the point of keeping it if its memory is only gonna hurt? That kind of emotional courage, I can never, ever achieve. But as I muse over it, I realise it's your way of living in the moment.

It tickles me when I encounter the child in you, fleeting, but glorious. That short moment when you smile sheepishly or when I make you a promise. You'd think I, of all people wouldn't know how much promises mean to you? You speak of your aspirations with such a child-like passion, in complete wonderment of the great wonders of music writing and self-reproaching yourself for your inabilities to achieve that. (It takes time my child, I believe in you) Yet you possess such a comforting, familiar, fatherly figure which I've always pined for my own father to be.

You are a combination of all the people around me whom I love, with your occasional words that make me for a moment forget that they're not with me. Sometimes, these words throw me into a sea of nostalgia. (Saudade,) But you would quickly sense it and try your best to rectify it. I want to help you forget it completely so that it may never trouble you again. I would then tell you that while these memories may stir up occasional waves of sadness, they have carved themselves in me and become part of me, and re-living them in my mind can be one of the most cathartic therapies. Which is one thing you could never quite comprehend.

(You confused soul, what do you want us to be?) It really doesn't matter as long as I know our hearts beat in sync and that our souls connect in infinite telepathy. (Let's try finishing each others' sentences.) Me becoming more like you, and you, becoming more like me. Because you are my best friend, I love you with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, and for you, a thousand times over.

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