in Apple Store
02/Oct. 7 pm
in Apple Store
I once bought a Toshiba to write about her. The typewriter couldn’t follow the rhythm of my heart. In fact, nothing could. Feelings tend to make me irrational. I wrote an average of twelve poems a day – all about you. Sometimes I would write twenty, but here’s the thing – you can’t trust averages. If we think, there aren’t many things one can believe. But well, I trusted her. I still do. I have this thing inside me – I can’t stop loving someone even after they smash me. I’m miserable, or maybe I’m just a lover. Anyhow… the computer broke, and I don’t like pencils. I like to think about you, and to love you. To love you, above all.
The clerk is looking at me. I think I’m taking too long. Anyway, these computers are too expensive. I can’t afford writing!
Dream.
Dream. A part in us that makes imagination seem our innate ability. A part that has always driven the mankind confused. The only reality that human brain still registers as an unfathomable virtuality.
One day you are at the bay, building sand castle with your kids and the second day, someone is trying to kill you. Living admist the different scenarios of our cranial sphere slowly teaches us the miracles of life.
But that is not all. It is a wonder how these few seconds of unplanned imaginations leave an impact that ironically plans our entire day. Making us ponder over it, sometimes for hours, days and months. It is like taking a dip in an ocean that suddenly seems not to be built by us. A dip that sometimes drowns us and sometimes nourishes our soul. Like watching a movie being filmed.
At some nights they become a nightmare, nightmares that burden your chest and make you cry. Other nights they make you blush in a way your day self wouldn't have witnessed.
A beautiful way our soul uses to communicate with us and tell us its stories.
Such is the story my dear friend. The tale of a storyteller we find difficult to write. But you can smile, for every night I will tell you a story that is no less than a dream.
Her words, not mine.
Her words stay up here,
like they're a secret kept.
But I try to sing that song,
just to get it off my chest.
It never works, her voice
won't ever let me rest.
I know she's long gone,
she stop listening,
but, for her,
I clear my throat and
always try my best.
I hang on every word, the ones I hear everyday, and pick up the mic with nothing left to say. My mouth is open, but these aren't my words anymore. I sing my heart out and prove I'm the fool you took me for.
