She, he told about

Her handwriting was so beautiful. Each letter had it’s own boldness, elegance and I loved to look at them. A pen and a white space, even in a notice, was enough for her to begin. She would write and then look at it, enjoys it’s beauty, goes into a serious thought and ends with a small smile. Every of those sequential actions I remember.

It is so normal, universal and a must go reality that time moves foreward. Ages, days, hours, everything passes. My happiness on seeing those fonts kept on changing its demensions. My skin began to paint itself lines and so do she. Still, she wrote. But now there is a difference. As timestamps move, the interpretations made by my brain on those texts perplexed from simple happiness to pride, then to a feeling of belongingness, to love, to possessiveness, to responsibility to trust, to many other emotions for which I am weak in English to find words to substitute for and finally to a fear; a fear of death.

Wrong. Perfectly wrong. Its not fear. What I ment by that attribute was that heaviness which rushed up to my heart, which paralysed my brain, that emptyness I afford and that silence I thirst for, which usually comes as a result of the decomposition and execution of those stimuli on reading her writings.

Regards to Mr. John Wallis for his invention of the symbol of infinity. More than that, I loved the word itself. Time goes on, yes? Thousands lived, many live and will be living, in this infinite timeline of paradoxes and riddles framed by the world. Some leave behind their footprints, as great poets express and the world remembers them. Some people live a happy life, fulfill their dreams and walk away peacefully. Others live and leave behind nothing for their inner being to rejoice. This is not a framed painting. Its reality. Its all about life and how we are, a function of time bounded by trust and hope.

“Aehh.. We don’t even have a place to go.”, she said with a long out breath of disappointment and helplessness. Silence was my comment. It was not because I was a good listener, but because I feared that my vocal pitch would be in trouble, I was trying to be emotionally mule. Her complains were never complains, they were requests and remainders, not to me, but to God.

“He is your father..and he is only…”, I remember she saying, not exactly the same words. 

Father! Who is a father? A person who answer his child and understands him. ‘Understand’ has broad meanings, I realised. To that realisation, eventhough not right, how can God me my father? I do not know. But still, I need that trust in him to go on. I was speaking about that fear of death, I nearly forgot. And I also said that it was not fear, but it was an anxiety about future and the lack of courage to face a life of problems. What can that fear bring me? Nothing. It only takes. And what I have is only the present. If it is taken, then what do I have? Nothing except her and a tale of lost hope.

That writing. There was where I started, those descriptive, emotional statements which holded my attention as he said, “It was all same – my name”. He was my inspiration.


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