I don’t know. I think that sometimes, somewhere, somehow, our minds mingle in a distantverse of its own. I won’t be able to tell what you’re thinking right there and then, but there will be the little signs – the shy, blink-and-you’ll-miss wink that you gave me one fine morning; the brilliant smile that parts your gleamingly white teeth, neatly arranged like white picket fences outside a tiny cottage by the quaint English countryside; the nervous twirl you make with your little finger whenever agitation sets in when the papers in your in-tray make their own Mount Everest.
Not acknowledging those signs doesn’t mean I’m denying your very existence, but I wish the message could come clearer and faster. Now, it’s like trying to make some sense out of this murky water of a bottle lost at sea for centuries – the only remains left of an already-long-decomposed lovingly-handwritten letter to a loved one. And then a ship comes into view over the horizon – a lone, inky black figure over the biting reflection of the sun on the high seas – but I can’t tell if it’s the Sea Sprite or the HMS Beagle.
Disintegrating words, different ages; disappearing faces, aging places.