Fever Dreams and Phone Conversations…

Just listening to your voice, from the other side of the world, makes me sleepless, nostalgic and turns me into a chronic smoker. How can none of them be healthy, yet then is the only time I feel alive!? Aren’t we taught that unhealthy -> less life!? I wrote you so often, but only in unsent papers

. Sometimes, in tissues left behind on restaurant tables,  served by Japanese smiling robots and self serving drink bars, when all human contact was devoid. Left behind, the tissues, smeared with ink and words of affection, looked like artefacts of  lost times. As I closed the door to leave, I imagined the confusion on the virtual face on the robots’ screen.

Sometimes I wrote in third person, not sure who I was, or who you were. The dialogue seemed to come out of fever dream or a Salvador Dali painting.

“There is something for you in there”, the old man has whispered. Her hazel eyes, clear like a peaceful lake, looked at the matchbox. It appeared oversized. “For you are from dust and…”, she had recalled a biblical verse the nun has recited when the patient in room 312 had just passed away. “Fire, dust, water, air”, the elements run through the girls mind as she kept looking to the small box. It seemed so out of time and space.

Who was this strange narrator and who was the old man, I couldn’t make out. I was too numb and too tired to tell, and I somehow knew that not a long time after I closed the door behind me, I would even question myself if I ever wrote that paper, and if I really left it in there.

I just missed you that much, baby, I was touched starved…

 

I see your honey eyes reflected in the horizon…/*54745756836*/