“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.”
I have a confession to make. I miss you. I am regressing into someone I haven’t been for a long time because for the past few days I have been experiencing a sort of extended spell of nostalgia. I miss Life. I miss talking by the pool, pouring our wine-drenched hearts out, and shouting into the void that we want to Live with a capital L.
We wanted to take the city by storm, shower everyone with our poetry, color the sidewalks with our essays, paint our story on walls. It was going to be great. “But what story?” we asked. We hadn’t actually done anything yet. There we were, a couple of twenty-somethings with big ideas, bigger dreams, and the biggest appetite to explore. Just explore and drink everything in. We were the kind of people who translated everything into poetry. The fact that we could afford only cheap wine? There’s poetry in that. When we rode the bus for a block because we didn’t want to walk under the scorching heat? There’s poetry in that. When we concluded that a friend-breakup is much worse than a couple-breakup? There’s sad, sad poetry in that.
We loved the city, but sometimes the city didn’t love us back. We argued that no love is perfect, and that rejection isn’t always a rejection; sometime’s it’s a bargain. But we knew, at the back of our minds, that maybe there weren’t enough rain clouds for a rainfall, much less a storm.
Three years later and here I still am, the same wide-eyed, writer-wannabe who drafts essays in the cold, utilitarian office at seven in the morning. I tried to be a poet, but I think I am a better narrator. I am a more comfortable narrator, at least. I am not as riddled with angst as before, my essays not always punctuated by bouts of regret or anger. Perhaps that is better for me but worse for my writing. Perhaps not. But in any case, I drink less wine and gulp more beer. I am rediscovering the city and its people, the familiar back alleyways, and the renovated old buildings now housing new-age bars playing host to a fresh breed of dreamers. And you are somewhere. Exactly where I don’t know. But I know you’re there, hopefully with better luck than I do about getting our story told. And one day, even if we don’t see each other again, perhaps I’ll come across a wall with your name on it.