Starting my Monday morning listening to Ice Cube’s ‘It was a good day’. Something about an old school hip hop jam in the morning. The kicks get you into a mellow mood. The low taps of fingers hitting keyboards are muffled out by the snare. Your mind zones out into that special spot. The sweet spot. Feeling like you’re cruising in a 64 down the highway. Windows down. Wind blowing. It will be a good day. You tell yourself.
A few things go through my mind when I’m on a date. Does she like me? Am I funny? Was that a genuine laugh? Is the cologne too much? Am I holding the fork right? Am I chewing my food enough times? Did she lie about her name? Is she really a lawyer? Does she know how much a kidney costs on the black market? What’s her blood type? Will Raila finally tell us who the Eurobond culprit is? How much wood would a wood chuck, chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood? Okay. The last one’s borrowed.
But let’s say it all goes well. Lunch. Dinner. The occasional breakfast. Countless coffee dates. Something special. Flowers on valentine’s. Chocolate on her days. Chocolate on her for your days. Connected. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically. A love story. Sometimes you get the perfect ending. Other times it’s tragic. Most times it’s tragic. But good things come to an end. Memories linger. You smile to yourself. And move on. Maybe move back.
Who wouldn’t want that?
Much like a book. Blog post. Newspaper article. You start a relationship, an intimate one. Every time you open one, the reader and the writer come together. Go into each other’s mind. Dance in the dark corners. Every word is a soft caress to the ego. Each sentence a kiss on the lips. Plot twists spicing things up. It’s almost tantric how these two connect. A Kama sutra of sorts. Tantric sapiosex. A writer that can connect to your mind and heart through their words. Make you feel special. Loved. Jealous even. Turning pages, scrolling screens is an out of body experience. You want to reach out and hug them. Say thank you. Say you love them. Send them a late night message. Stay up talking till the wee hours.
Breakfast in bed in the mornings. Long walks. Or drives, walks can be tedious. Cultivating the relationship. Building on each other. Listening to your favorite song play. Trying to love their favorite song. Visiting the places they love. Feeling the warm atmosphere of the coffee shop they first fell in love in. Having that beer with them. Wiping their tears. Offering a shoulder to lean on. Readying yourself for the inevitable. The end. Usually beautiful. Sometimes painful. But you don’t feel used. Desperate. Despondent. Pathetic. Cheap.
Like any relationship it should take time to cultivate. Getting to know each other. Loving the flaws. Hating them. Hating the fact that you love them. Loving the fact that you hate them. It’s special. Never to be rushed. Opening up to new possibilities. Start with the coffee. Skip the Netflix and chill. Move on to the three second hug. Graduate to the light cheek peck. Passionately delve into their lips. Be comfortable in your skin as they in theirs. Gaze into their eyes. See their soul. Embrace its scars. Adore its beauty. Forgive its inequities.
As a writer this is something I hope to achieve. Connect with a reader. Give them that feeling that each word was carefully chosen for them. Each sentence beautifully crafted to make them smile. Each emotion evoked true. I want them to see the word from my eyes. Feel what I feel. Share in my pain, happiness and laugh at the comic reliefs. I want it such that when the last word rolls out of their lips, they find a reason to hang on. Crave for that ‘One last time’ moment. Harbor hope that it is not goodbye. More like a see you soon.
But some relationships start in the morning. Head aching with a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. You wake up and between taking the umpteenth tequila shot and having undies ripped off in drunken bouts of fierce banging it’s all a blur. You cannot look into their eyes. Blood shot eyes. Rheumy. What you have is regret. Questions. How do I get home? Where are my clothes? Where am I? Who is this person? Weren’t they a ten last night? It can’t happen again. It’s a memory you want to carve out of your brain. Lobotomy maybe. The night you never speak of. Not in a ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ way. But in a, ‘shitting your pants during a job interview way’.
It will be fun. They said. You’re boring. They jeered. It’s just one drink. But you feel cheated. Used. Walking away in shame. An insult on your intelligence. The start of a hatred so deep rooted you ever want to see them again. You never want to walk out into the world. You shut off all others. The good ones. We pay for the mistakes of another. Losing out on an exhilarating love story. Why? Because one person out there lied. Promised heaven gave hell. So the rest pay for the sins of one.
There are writers you read and it feels like a one night stand that started out with so much promise. Followed by a walk of shame. Ignored texts. Don’t call me anymore messages. Writers that don’t value the beauty of a readers mind. The intimate relationship that coexists between them. Writers that don’t understand the need to develop this. They violate the trust bestowed upon them. Trust given when the reader opens the first page or clicks on a link. So we all face the brunt. The reluctance of a beautiful mind to again see the world from your eyes. Because aren’t we all the same? One for all and all for one. Right?