Prescriptions for reading: Listen to Submarine By Alex Turner.
I was on a train. Safe and sound.
With Submarine on repeat, I read books,
let my mind wander,
tried and failed to get the hang of poetry and ended up writing letters and short stories.
Safe and sound.
We stopped at the station and I went down to refill my cup, buy some magazines and go back but you held me by the sleeve of my cardigan.
`Come to the road trip` you said. `It`ll be fun` you said. `It`s wilder, funnier and faster. Come` you said, `come on.`
We read books and stargazed and sunbathed. We laughed our lungs out and cried our hearts out. We fought sleep to devour each other`s fantasies and frightening.
`You make beautiful things` you said as I read you the last story I wrote.
Beautiful things, God!!
I relit your sense of adventure and taught you how to dream.
You relit my sense of belonging and taught me how to keep it real.
We redefined romance and intelligence as you ceased my thirst for meaningful conversations.
And between this and our hilarious inside jokes you became my new definition of a balanced and accomplished person.
We argued over religion and politics and Submarine being monotone. We drove on rainbows and took naps on the clouds.
And before I knew it, the party was over.
I was standing on my own in the middle of nowhere, your fingerprints on the sleeve of my cardigan, your soul print on the shell of my heart.
I swam the ocean in attempt to get them off.
I swam and swam and swam.
I gasped for air, for warmth, for safety.
I landed on the shore only to realize they were still there.
Barefoot, I run and run and run.
I found a pretty cave and decided to settle in for a while.
I made myself writing materials.
And I wrote diary entries and letters for my family and friends to let them know I was safe and sound.
I wrote you a letter but one I will never send.
I cleansed my body with pure water and cut my hair short… for a change
I stared at myself into the mirror and noticed this little scab on my left knee from the time we raced on our knees;
I got this burn on the back on my pinky finger from the time we baked lemon pies in the middle of the night;
I still got this white hair from the time we tried and failed at applying oxygen on our hairs…for a change
I got all these marks inside and out my skin from times I spent in your wilderness and my reflection never looked prettier, my soul never felt cleaner, and my mind never thought more peacefully about how it all started, how it all ended and how we managed to make a masterpiece out of the in-between.
To say `I miss you` would be an understatement of the void I`m facing.
The door you left my wilderness from is still wide open and I`m freezing from the cold that`s getting in.
I tried to close it shut by my hands felt too numb to move.
In attempt of recovery, I took naps in the sun, I drunk my mother`s hot milk and ginger, I wrote, took long steamy baths and finally felt warm enough to go on.
I went back home, back to my old ways which I approached with novelty and freshness.
I scanned the shell of my heart and realized that your soul print has finally disappeared from it.
And so I thought you were gone for good now, your print and all.
Up until I didn`t whine about the lack of opportunities in my life anymore and instead took myself seriously enough to create ones, just like you taught me, just like you functioned: you never felt sorry for yourself or for your unluckiness, you just took whatever path that`ll get you to that place you want to be at instead of waiting to be transported there.
And how I didn`t beat myself up in times when all I could create was low-quality content. You used to love me during these periods and with this love you taught me to unlink my creativity from my worth. `Take your time` you used to say, `take your time.`
Also, how I didn`t feel embarrassed anymore from being too quiet, from saying no when I need to and from being weird. The way you were relentlessly and confidently being yourself will never cease to inspire me.
All these instinctive and novel changes proved that your soul print didn`t disappear, it just blended through the layers of skin my heart is protecting itself with.
On this realisation, I run to the basement of my heart and flipped through the archives until I found your file with your initials on it and your smell all over it.
I sat crossed legged and finally felt healthy enough to make a scrapbook out of all the photographs we took, the lessons you taught me, the feeling of being special that you gave me, the bus tickets to wonderland, your habit of swallowing my insecurities as you would a summer cocktail, the fancy bakeries receipts and the piece of fabric on which you taught me to cross stitch my initials.
That scrapbook was the enchanting legacy you left on my heart, on my soul, and on my life and I couldn`t feel more honored nor be more grateful.
I held it to my heart and shut my eyes in reflection.
I thought about lots of things amongst which is how we tend to measure human bonds by how long they last or what caused the goodbyes.
Your last lesson was about measuring them by the impact, the influence, the stain, the unique and authentic soul print that each leaves on the life of the other.
All we should worry about is whether the soul print we left was pretty enough, warm enough, gentle enough and permanent enough?
And so I wondered if the waves I sent your way shaped your world in a marvellous or a tragic way or was it a significant wave at all?
I wondered when you`re pills and slippers and rocking chair flipping through the pages of your youth and you see my face on an old photograph, will you frown, smile, laugh or cry? Will you recognize me at all?
Better yet, will I have given you enough delightful reasons for me to always be a welcomed guest into your house, into your life and into your heart?