The world is full of conversations with women I’ve never met. “Hi, how are you?” “Yeah? Me too.” “Nah, no way!” “Sure, I’d love to.”
The words go 360° and land back at my feet, ever constrained in a magically perfect world where things are clockwork. But truth isn’t a warm blanket; and your heart is never warmer than a Siberian summer.
A different kind of singularity approaches, merging fantasy with truth. Sometimes I find myself at the epicenter of it. Sometimes I feel like the pragmatic notions of another tomorrow strikes me numb, keeping me chained to every second that passes by.
There’s a secret in all of this, but I’m not sure what it is. I’ve been searching far and wide, from the jungles of the Bengal to the bustling urban mechanism of the Big Apple: But it’s sneakier than you think!
My most precious memory of a girl was when I was only about eight. She was the daughter of my father’s business friend who was visiting from South Korea. I don’t remember her name, but at such a tender age, we had something that I sometimes feel I’ll never have again. It was pure, perfect, momentary and seemingly destined.
After a long stay in Bangladesh, they were finally headed back home to Seoul. On the way to the airport, the girl and I shared the backseat of a Corolla. My English was weak at best; her Bengali was even weaker. Smiles and glances were the medium of communication, and by the end of the ride she had given me a pink pencil box. I keep it to this day, hidden in the annals of my youth.
Boxes store your memories without a warranty. There’s no guarantee you’ll remember yesterday, which is a sad fact indeed. But it’s okay. At the end of the day, I’ll know that I’ve had multiple conversations with you and wondered the many things that could have transpired.
This life is simple. Our hearts are fragile at best. We are what we long for. And for that: premeditated pleasures keep us breathing.