I’m almost finished with writing this piece and have realized that the story I tell gradually declines into this deprived pool of self-pity and solitude. I can promise you that that is not the true mood I wanted to set, however I think I will accept that my subconscious has made my fingers tap away at a keyboard for long enough until it became what it became. I promise you that I am a blessed soul, one with a decently powerful personality and a tongue that can get stupidly courageous. I do not feel a need for extra care or affection, but I do recognize the beauty of its existence in my life. That’s why I wrote this. Not because it is a rare occasion — but because it is extra pretty now.
As someone who frequently practices slight forms of charlatanry, expounding on memories can sometimes become quite a formidable task. And that’s because I always want to make sure that I’ve used enough jargonistic language in respect to whatever I’m babbling about and that some form of profound fervent attachment to the memory is almost conspicuously palpable through my words. That being said, I have found that expending excessive thought into my words as I write them out results in the forlorn exhaustion I fear before I even begin writing. So I have concluded that I will write out this memory without thinking about it. I even want to say that I won’t revise it, but that will probably be a lie. This won’t be a long memory, mostly because I think I want to keep the details to myself. Almost like a proclaimed secret that I will decide to carry with me most likely until the day I die. I will walk around fearing the details’ dissipation from my ageing mind, but if only a single trigger word could allow for the sensations of comfort that I felt to return, then the details don’t matter. I will remember knowing that it was perfect — and that’s enough, I think.
I stayed up till 2am that night. I stayed up listening and speaking and feeling. As I lay my head in his chest, I listened as the world went quiet. My sisters fell asleep near him and he tucked them in as a father would, with the warmth and care we pitifully lacked. It wasn’t anyone that I longed for a form of endearment from. It was him. From his glistening mind and his soft words and his listening ears. The other night he stayed up with us too, but tonight it was only me and him travelling deeper into the heart of the night, where I have discovered that there lies a hidden repose at exactly 12:46am. It’s strange isn’t it? But maybe it was only because he was with me. He talked to me about how he felt death once, and how there were friends that promised to visit each other after they were gone. Some of them fulfilled and some didn’t, and the remaining souls assumed that their friends got distracted with what they were facing after their deaths.
“They could either be too entangled within their punishments or too engrossed into their firmaments.” His voice rang softly as his eyelids fell heavily.
“Are you tired? I can go to my bed if you want to sleep.” I asked precociously while secretly praying he would still ask me to stay.
“Only if you want to sleep,” he said a few times. But I saw his body crave a sleep that his mind kept ignoring.
So I stayed, with my head squeezed between his arms and my hand resting on his chest — and I listened. I spoke and listened until my teeth began to involuntarily shutter. My body was screaming at me. It pleaded for its transient death.
“When I die, I promise to visit you.” He said to me with shut eyes and a bashful head.
What a sad thing to say! What a beautiful thing to say. But what a sad thing to say.
“I want to buy a horse. I love horses,” he smiled, “one day I’ll make you ride a horse.”
Me. For me? For me.
“Do you want to sleep?”
“Only if you want to sleep.”
I don’t want to sleep. I know this sounds too cliche to be able to swallow, but I promise I’m not like this everyday.
When I woke up the next day, the father was gone and I sat with myself for a few minutes feeling a little out of place. The memory felt out of place too — but there was a heavy security that embraced every organ so tightly that I had to stretch my diaphragm a little too drastically before I could breath properly again. My body ached for that entire day but when I remembered the night, I laughed quietly to myself and apologized for letting my body go through that exhaustion. I promised it never to put it through that again — but it was worth it, I sniggered. It was definitely worth it.