Immortal imprints
He wasn’t a romantic, roses were a no-no, he wouldn’t dance, and he couldn’t sing - yes, he could strum the guitar and even play Richard Marx all day on the keyboard - but he wasn’t the guy you’d see take center stage. Some said that he writes half-decent, some said that he’s a really neat blogger, and slowly - but surely - he started believing that yes, maybe he IS a neat blogger after all.
But yes, he loved her. Perhaps it’s only fitting that we quote his affection in past-tense. As a result of the events that followed, he went back to his most able shoulder of solitude, something he knew would never let him down. In fact, seclusion is a blessing so divine that even God has left it for Himself - apologies, but it must be awfully lonely up there all alone for you? - and maybe that’s a good thing.
Oops, lest we forget, He has the angels for company.
One of the plus points from such situations is how the heart responds, and as a result, how otherwise unwritten things would go up on blogs such as this. Not that it mattered to him. From day one, from his first lie and his first realization of the truth, he’d been maintaining this separate blog dedicated to her. A collection of random letters, stories and verses that painfully narrate every little feeling that ever stemmed for her.
While the world has been breaking its head to get into SEO and get their blogs listed right up there, he did the opposite. His feelings are private, in the sense, Google cannot index them. Yet, they’re there for the world to see. More importantly, for her to see.
It’s really what it is - a ‘blog’ - a web log - a log of all the incidents that happens, relevant to her and otherwise. It’s his personal diary she has perhaps been craving to read. But she’ll never get to see it, and when she will, he would’ve walked away too far.
Thing is, he’s already walking away. Hardnosed pragmatism seduces men, and empowers them with the ability to move on and out of a dark cavity.
Of course, this does mean that there is a change, not exactly the kinds that Obama’s preaching about, but a change nevertheless. He wouldn’t know if it’s constructive or drastic, simply because it’s difficult to fathom the extent of evolution from within the subject itself. He might have gotten tougher. What he did know was, he went silent. Mum. Zip.
Silence, as they all say, is golden. In that manner, it’s precious. Because silence leaves a lot unspoken, and it’s ironically the unspoken that stings the most, and hardest. But this isn’t just straightforward silence, no. He isn’t the kind of person who can keep quiet for too long. Which is precisely why he has the other blog where he can type away, a race of the fingers against the keys fuelled by desire. It keeps him ticking.
Besides going silent, he also went a bit numb, as the reluctance to react only shot up. In the past few months, joyous things have happened, so much so that, when someone asks him ‘how’s life’, the automatic response is ‘never been better’. Yet, he rarely punches the air in delight, or even intends it. He rarely exclaims his previous ‘yays’ and ‘wows’ and ‘cools’, resorting to the single, dry, unsympathetic, unapologetic and insensitive letter that murders chat conversations, ‘k’. It reflects his actual personality, and more importantly, the change, because here was a guy who couldn’t contain his joy previously. Now, it almost seems there’s no joy left.
It kind of scared him until he chanced upon a Kahlil Gibran quote yesterday, thanks to a helping hand, which summed it all up using real-estate as an example.
The deeper sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Ah, there you go.
Credits:
A little cousin - for enlightening him on how much he’s changed.
FL aka AB - for the quote he had been searching for, who will either (a) curse him at the end of this post b) immediately regret that he shared the quote c) do both.
You-know-who - who’ll one day chance upon his blog when it’s too late for the both of them.
