I think of you at 3am just as I am reminded of you at 3pm. I think of you in the moments before I sleep, or before I take a bite out of a chocolate that I suppose you would've liked to have, or just after finishing my breakfast, or in the moments I step out of the car. I mean to say, that, there is no specific time in which I think of you or don't think of you. You are a fluid, pure part of my mind, my thoughts, just as milk is a component of the tea-- hot, steaming cups of tea you and I shared in the cold evenings along with your stories of the war. You are a part of my most self-like self, as like myself as I can ever be.
In the natural process of thinking and unthinking of you, I question the 24-hours in a day, question...question... question... If the time we measure through minutes and numbers is a measure for anything meaningful at all, meaningful as the pictures and voices of you in my head. What are these clocks and alarms worth really if they do not measure the capacity to feel, and remember, and love you, collect and preserve our memories like the tangible grains of sand in hourglasses-- what are these clocks, what are these numbers that do not measure pain or joy, or the time it takes for love to blossom, to stagnate and finally to fade away-- what are these clocks and calenders if they only predict time and dates but never told me about the day you will leave, and never told me about the rest of the days of my life after that day, where I would find life itself such a fickle, such an abstract concept--an abstraction that I could do without easily if I can do without you?
“The bereaved have no language with which to speak with the unbereaved.”
They tell me that time heals all but why does time not answer my questions? Can you please come back now and tell me why time does not respond to me? As if time itself was now hostile towards me, as if I had offended it with some foolish mistake... But can you come back and explain to me why and come back to make me aware of my mistakes? Because nobody does that for me anymore. Nobody waits and nobody explains all the whys like you did. I don't make anyone want to be patient enough to explain the whys and hows to me, don't make anyone want to stick around and explain the wrongs to me. Everyone has something to say. Then why can't I hear anything more than indifference in the air that carries the voices to me? Even time itself does not bat an eyelash for me, as if everything had stagnated the moment you left. So won't you please come back now and breathe life into us again?
In the natural process of thinking and unthinking of you, I question the 24-hours in a day, question...question... question... If the time we measure through minutes and numbers is a measure for anything meaningful at all, meaningful as the pictures and voices of you in my head. What are these clocks and alarms worth really if they do not measure the capacity to feel, and remember, and love you, collect and preserve our memories like the tangible grains of sand in hourglasses-- what are these clocks, what are these numbers that do not measure pain or joy, or the time it takes for love to blossom, to stagnate and finally to fade away-- what are these clocks and calenders if they only predict time and dates but never told me about the day you will leave, and never told me about the rest of the days of my life after that day, where I would find life itself such a fickle, such an abstract concept--an abstraction that I could do without easily if I can do without you?
“The bereaved have no language with which to speak with the unbereaved.”
They tell me that time heals all but why does time not answer my questions? Can you please come back now and tell me why time does not respond to me? As if time itself was now hostile towards me, as if I had offended it with some foolish mistake... But can you come back and explain to me why and come back to make me aware of my mistakes? Because nobody does that for me anymore. Nobody waits and nobody explains all the whys like you did. I don't make anyone want to be patient enough to explain the whys and hows to me, don't make anyone want to stick around and explain the wrongs to me. Everyone has something to say. Then why can't I hear anything more than indifference in the air that carries the voices to me? Even time itself does not bat an eyelash for me, as if everything had stagnated the moment you left. So won't you please come back now and breathe life into us again?
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