I might be blundering a little, falling
more than I thought I would. Perhaps
the darkness is throwing me off, pushing
me too hard for me to balance, hang on
to things quite right. Sometimes, I'm
afraid of silence. Of solitude. Last night,
I had a little date
with myself. Quiet, and yet so loud.
No white tablecloth, no roses or candles.
Only a wooden floor facing the bright
windows of the library, only a single
strip of sky and two stars, only a plate
of sandwiches and namkeen. Only a
phone resting on tired knees, playing
soulful strings to myself. Only the wind,
tousling back hair and the leaves of potted
plants in the vicinity, only the strange looks
of passing strangers. Only the smiles I could
give to myself. Only the smiles.
The music grew bigger and leaked out
of its bubble, until it filled the collegescape,
coloured everything a warmer hue, floating
into my badly-lit corner and rising, soaring
past petty worries and little aches, my bent
back and clenched limbs, the weight of the
world in the bags under my eyes - the music
painted everything lighter, named it all brighter,
called me moonshine and firewater, touched me
until I tingled, brown freckled skin over bones
and dreams, as tall as mountains and as deep as
the sea. The music grew so big I couldn't see it
anymore. The music was inside and outside, the
wind grew louder but more silent, and I flew.
The sandwich was divine. The corner was serendipity
in form. The moment, though trivial, was incomprehensibly
large; my little date with myself was a sonnet to solitude.
I had no white tablecloth, no fancy restaurant - I was dressed
baggy, unprepared, on the ground with throat to the stars.
It was all I needed, to tell myself
hey. I love you, man.
I don't need a white tablecloth or a black party dress,
the bright lights are enough, the dark sky more than plenty.
Life itself is all I want to aim for - life itself, my friend.