The Ride: “And you know what they say about the forgotten things? To let them be.”
You wake up with your head swimming in a slight buzz and throb. You regret taking the second turn on the right instead of that left one but there’d been a drop too many and I’d groaned that no four walls could make us feel any safer.
But once you lift your head up from the metallic roof on which you lie, you’ll want to get drunk all over again. Trust me, the light spilling on last night’s darkness up above will be enough to intoxicate you. In the pull of such rare dimensions of two parts reality and five parts fascination, I’ll be watching you.
I’ll be looking over, beyond you. Wondering whether I’m sinking or floating, or doing a bit of both and it is only when you look back at the lethargic viscous of confusion beside you that you’ll know that that turn was worth it. That every gear changed last night was worth it. That the heaving at the back of your throat from visiting your dreams last night was worth it.
That waking up under the morning sun on the roof of a car was one of the things you’d lived for not knowing what it would be, but once you breathed in the moment you knew that this was it.
This is a moment too much yet too less to account for in the wildest dreams. The spectrum of my sabbatical visions bathes me whole and I soak myself in it, reveling like there’s no tomorrow, and that this was it. Our moment of gospel.
And you know what they say about the forgotten things?
To let them be.
But I can’t let the question you were to me be. For now, you have turned into an answer and ever since the first sparks lit up, I cannot fathom what the question was. Such are not the moments to crunch all your memories together.
Let’s just say you’ve turned into the answer to everything then.
The answer to my childhood wish I’d once made to own the stars for one night, and then negotiate with them for the rest of my breaths. It’s those stars that I own now, but I’ll soon lose them, or will I? You tell me.
And, once lost, then I’ll be negotiating with the tailor who sews the end of the world for more and I’m afraid I’ll have you no more.
There will be no more of these dawns with the knock of the incandescent glow of sun’s might against the buildings and roads not quite so awoken from their slumbers. Even then their colours will seep away, making little streams. Around the corner, along the pathways, across the streams and in your wake. They follow not me anymore, they follow my answers and visions. They might make me up, but they aren’t mine anymore now.
That’s not the answer I’d been waiting for.
My answer always lay in another language, with different curves and edges. To have owned it, you’d know that it’s a part of you. Or should I just say that my answer lay in you.
All the time.
In the backseat, or anywhere under the sunroof. In the empty ice cream boxes, spilled drinks, prickly solitude and the blinking headlights.
And though the world is not a bad place, the powers governing it certainly took their time measuring it out and laying it down. They cut the exact bit of fabric, added a drop of that bottle, sized up a bit of that antiquity and replaced it with a bit of fuzziness.
All this while, the process was carried out in such a seraphic manner that it hurts to envision it. It makes the world unreal and fickle, to have known yet not believed in it.
To have understood, yet not realized its meaning.
I watch, nevertheless, and watch.
I see it all with a certain magnificence governing me and the air growing increasingly sparse.
I’ll lie alongside and not be anything, just let the flames take their final course.
As a final precursor, the eerie magnanimity of the stillness gave rise to the best and worst of me, in a second all that I had known was spun into a thread that held you out. This would have been in a better place, under different shades of azures, but there’s only so much I could tell you before I’ve lost everything that I’ve known.
There’s only so much to be, when the inferno enrages us together.
There’s only one to be, when there’s no breath enough to be for two.
But there’s none to be, when the last one doesn’t suffice your boundaries.
Understand that it just doesn’t work this way in the unspoken courts of justice.
Trust me, halves have never worked and never will. White hots are the only way across, and I’ll drive you there tonight if I can.
I could take you there and we could count ourselves from the past to infinity under a thousand suns. But tonight we’ll be away. Not gone, just away. Just to check up on whether there remain any remains of ours, making sure to step across the road and buy that pizza. I find these more simple and manageable than explaining what got us here. Don’t care for these answers, I have mine, don’t I?
The rest doesn’t count. The world is still awakening, and I still watch over you. And I know that I’m looking at a star, not a meteor. This is just our ride.
And when the fire goes out no one, except the tire marks, would know what happened at the corner last night.