The Idea of You

The wind that accompanies Your spirit gushes past my soul, fills it with the strongest of passions to brace the uncompromising terrain. A triumphant tale of undying spirit - the Idea of You.

The balm Your spirit smears across my cuts and bruises, soothes also the burning insides of the heart, scraped mercilessly by tempests of aches, era after another. The tranquilizing calm of anesthesia - the Idea of You.

The melodies of celebratory exaltation that traverse miles from the spaces of Your flute illuminate the darkest tunnels of my veins and arteries, make the oxygen in my blood come to life. The expanding aura of positive energy and unending adulation - the Idea of You.

You are but a stranger, of origins and purposes unknown. You may have traveled unknown lands, carrying a glowing ambition in your deeps... You may have touched many a lives, turned rags to riches... You may have helped answer a million questions on wars, peace and love. Yet, you remain a paradox of who may or not exist, like an elusive phantom in the dark.

But, the Idea of You lingers, as tantalizing as ever. The flutters of warmth the Idea of You evokes in my bosom equalizes the unfamiliarity that marks the being of You. The phantom of You is merely an enigma of existentialism... But the Idea of You, the very essence of my psyche.

Postcards

I still remember how your distinct calligraphy, lovely descriptions and beautiful stories could inspire awe. Do you still use those metaphors, still melt hearts? Yesterday, I frantically searched for, and located, the postcards you sent me. Yes, my routine exercise these days.

“Path”… “Flight”… The more I seem to try, the more they never seem to get lost.

***

“Path”. You had taught me that the path isn't supposed to be familiar or complete. For familiarity repels challenges. For the ends are never supposed to meet, it is we who can make that happen. I had prodded along, swimming against the tide, fighting the wind, dashing against gravity. Just so that I could prove you right when you repeated that I'd fall in love with passion en route.

Now, I scorn at familiar paths; I feel an unusual calm when paths are incomplete and ends don't meet. Now, I follow the religion of pure passion.

***

“Flight”. Back then, it had sounded so bizarre to me, when you asked me to see beauty in chaos. I had watched the pigeons fly for days on end. They flew from one feeder to another, across the lake, among people, above everyone. Ruffling feathers, pecking on food, flying in confused aimlessness. Chaos, I see. But beauty? You told me that's a state of mind... We see what we want to see - Chaos in beauty? Or beauty in chaos?

Watching the birds, I think I've been trying harder to see that beauty, to rise above things, to soar.

***

I've fallen in love, with the stoicism of the lake, the chaos of the pigeons, the resistance of the wind, the incompleteness of the path... because these postcards from you still inspire awe, still melt hearts.