Untitled, again.

I could not find something to listen to.

——–

A stranger walks into her life unexpectedly. She is unaware. He finds himself a dusty corner to sit in, somewhere in the solitude of her thoughts. She is unaware. He draws stories of his past on her walls. She is unaware. He is a stranger of thoughts; an alien of words, a knight of the dawn. She is unaware. She is unaware.

A nomad in search of a safe house is all she ever was. Has she found a place to stay, she wonders. The issue here is not her finding a place to stay. Sleeping on the streets of nothingness always comforted her. Those streets everyone feared at night were her only sanctum. They often warned her of murderers and masked criminals roaming those streets. To her, however, those streets were the closest thing she ever had to a home.

She wonders if this stranger has spotted her late one night as she slept in one of its alleys. She wonders if this stranger is not really a stranger, for he is far too strange to be one. The irony of the situation deceives her. It is not time to meet stranger and ignorantly watch him come in, put the teapot on the stove, pour the tea into the teacup, take the cinnamon cake out of the oven, cut the cinnamon cake into symmetrical squares, open the cupboard, choose one, not two, but one red plate, move two, not one, but two pieces of cake, hold them with the tip of his fingers, place them gently on top of one another on one, not two, but one plate, and walk to the balcony of her unaware hopes and dreams, overlooking a utopia turned into ashes of forlorn.

Not once does she ask who is he, what he wants, where he comes from, what he does, or anything about him. What interests her is his interest in her. What makes a stranger so familiar, so predictable, so insane, so sanely insane, so strange, so confusingly easy to understand, so so.

He glances at her as the tea grows colder, hoping silently that she would join him and witness the fall of her. He will hold her when it all falls. He will comfort her. He will give her a place to stay. He will offer her safety. He will. He will. She glances back questioning herself more than him or his intentions. She quietly paces across this dusty room of hers, almost swaying to the wind of silence – unshaken by his ever-mesmerizing glance.

What are you, he asks, not who but what.

Β 

  1. Damn, girl! You can write! My imagination was all over the place with this one!
    *Clap clap clap*

    • Thank you, my dear. I believe the stranger had a greater power over me that I thought. πŸ™‚

    • observationofalostsoul
    • October 22nd, 2011

    love it .. one lucky stranger is there looking at that person ..looking out for her,,,a guardian angel…checking her heart beats…that no crumbs are on her lap..that the cups are clean and stacked back into their proper place.

  2. In response to that, I find nothing better than to quote you:
    “What interests her is his interest in her. What makes a stranger so familiar, so predictable, so insane, so sanely insane, so strange, so confusingly easy to understand, so so.”

    It’s the thirst for human connections that are quenched by fantasies of what is – or is not – to come.

    • Ah, she fears what is yet to come. She longs for a change, but does not want to come. She is, however, opening up. She must.

      • It’s the dismal fate of every single woman who uses her head in this world. Makes you wish you were an airhead sometimes.

  3. Budz :

    It’s the dismal fate of every single woman who uses her head in this world. Makes you wish you were an airhead sometimes.

    Or carefree. Or careless enough to just do it and not regret in case anything goes wrong.

    To just be.

    • Is the humanly possible? Doesn’t everything leave a stain on your soul? Doesn’t every “lover” take a piece of you and twist you into someone new with every experience (someone you don’t necessarily want to become)?

      To just be is to not be.

      If I am carefree and careless enough to not regret, then I wouldn’t embark upon such an experience because it probably wouldn’t trigger my curiosity to begin with.

      I’m blabbering =) Forgive me. But it’s your fault :p Your writing triggered this!

      Hehe

      Luff u ❀

      • No, no. I love this. It gets me thinking. I love our talks, no matter how short and limited, I love them.

        Love, love is a different thing. Love is a paradox. You love someone for who they are, but they change because you love them. Doesn’t that mean you no longer love who they are now, but who they were?

        See, we think we love, but we don’t. We never love. We like, and adjust our liking of others are they adjust to us. We never love. We’re just random strangers coming into one another’s lives and leaving when fate takes its course.

  4. I’ve been reading ur stories over and over…I’ve felt my heart rend into a million pieces and put together again by the pure beauty of ur words. Ur amazing mashallah beyond amazing…I dnt know how its possible to read something that fills u so much and leaves u bereft and empty at the same time…

    I’m in so much awe I dont know what to say

    • And here I was thinking I lost my well to write. Thank you so much, your comment has truly inspired me and put a smile on my face in a very tough time. πŸ™‚

    • Me
    • November 15th, 2011

    You have a really good way with words. πŸ™‚

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