Elijah’s Diary. Entry Title “Raw.”
Time: Undated.
There’s a soft, pale moon glowing outside. It’s not quite the full moon we loved so much, but it’s almost the end of the month, so maybe the full moon will come soon enough.
I hope.
I miss rambling. We used to call it that; those moments when we’d lie on the grass, under the blanket of stars and just talk, not a care in the world. Food and drink forgotten as we lost each other in each other’s thoughts; running around aimlessly in our own minds, reveling in the fleeting eternity and vastness of just… being.
The comfortable silences that stretched out into everything, in which – my head on your chest – I could hear your heart beat to the rhythm of infinity for hours on end, while you gently ran your fingers over my really awful uncombed hair and all I wanted, all I ever really wanted, was for that infinity to be… infinite.
… infinite …
The arguments about books and food and wine; my uncultured self playfully dissing your refined elegance, talking about how the Pinot Noir could only be paired with a cheese whose names I couldn’t even pronounce, because, by God!, I hated cheese. And of course, my mock French accent was an abomination that you said you never ever wanted to hear again and yet kept giggling at like a little girl each time you heard it.
And that time when we both realized that we shared nearly a hundred favorite books
(I exaggerate)
and spent the next a hundred years
(I exaggerate)
gushing about the characters, the stories and the little literary and cognitive traps the author placed in our paths to stumble us.
(Or not).
You once read to me poems from your favorite poet.
Yeats.
And later, we laughed at the silliness of it all. And even much later, got lost in the seriousness of it all, losing precious hours to quick Wikipedia searches in the midst of dressing up for work.
Yeats.
You were lying on the couch, book in hand, and I was seated on the floor, playing some stupid video game. It was a late, lazy Sunday evening and you had just returned from visiting your friend who was about to give birth. Agnes. Angry, you had gone on about her stupid ex-boyfriend who didn’t want the baby and who had walked out on her and you wanted to murder him but didn’t know if you would survive in prison and I mentioned I’d visit once a year and you threw a pillow at me and laughed.
And after a while, you just started reading. You smiled when I paused my game after a few minutes
(you sly girl)
but you kept on reading. And by the time the book was done, you were in my arms and we were both wrapped in our blanket of stars and the candlelight was fading and your hand was in mine and damn you smelt so good. And when you closed the book, and looked up and smiled at me, I leaned down and kissed your forehead
so…
very…
very…
gently.
You sighed and in that moment… I had my eternity.
…
…
I’m lost without you. You are my world. You know this.
And I know this. And I know that the rain falling outside right now makes everything I’m about to say so stupidly cliché and
(it really is raining)
yet I have to say it.
I need you. You ground me. You remind me to never take life seriously, even though you take life way too seriously with your insane work ethic and that hardcore discipline that makes poor unfocused me feel like a little kid in kindergarten wondering why they don’t give cookies for doing the cool random things that make life oh so much more fun.
I sat outside yesterday. Just chilling. On the verandah, seated on that stupid chair that looks like it has been around for nearly a thousand years. The one you said King Nebuchadnezzar had misplaced and urgently wanted back.
I’m sorry. A thousand and one years.
I sat outside, with a beer, an unread book by my side (Infinite Jest) and just stared. And drank, of course. But mostly, I stared. At that little brown patch of grass that has completely refused to grow. I think the dog keeps shitting on it. Which is ironic (damn you Alanis), because isn’t shit supposed to you know, make the grass greener and more lush? Maybe the dog’s shit is toxic…
Heh.
I sat outside and stared at the patch of grass and I saw you dancing, twirling around in that sundress you love so much. The yellow one with fake red belt that dangles uselessly in that quirky way that you girls find oh so pretty and the pale blue and while floral patterns lining the hem, which swirled so wondrously around your gorgeous, gorgeous legs as you did a hilariously imperfect salsa, dancing along to my atrociously bad Spanish guitar strumming.
Singing Spanish ballads with my stupid French accent.
Ours was a comic tragedy that made each day perfect. I loved you. And you loved me. And that was…
enough.
So here I am. Empty. Broken. Exhausted. And I don’t know why and I do know why.
This? All of this is nothing if you’re not here. The days are long and the nights longer. The full moons wax and wane much slower than they used to and the night sky is not as pretty as it used to be – I think the stars are on boycott – and everything just seems slightly dimmer and out of focus because you, my light, my clarity and my eternity are not here.
And there’s an emptiness I cannot describe. And I think I might be losing my mind.
But…
: -)
I cannot wait to see you again.
I miss you…
terribly.
Come home soon.
PS: The YAKA is back on. I swear.