In my opinion, the best blog I ever wrote was the first. When I touched leafy raindrops. It is beyond a doubt, the rawest, most honest piece I have written. And although all my feelings for F have died, I can still feel the way I felt when I wrote that blog – when I read that blog.
It took me two years to wipe him out of my head, out of every desire and longing I had. Those two years were so worth it. Those two years made me realize how fleeting forever is. It made me realize that stability kicks passion’s ass. It made me realize that all the romance and roses of la-la land can’t compete with the irritatingly comfortable chai and toast ritual I’m starting to love. It made me realize that something’s can never be bought, there are something’s even a linen suit and Aldo shoes can’t bring. But. Yes, the inevitable but. The knowledge of Over hits like a sledgehammer. Forever is fleeting, friendship isn’t. Friendship with F is apparently – fleeting. It has fleeted. Is that even a word?
I stayed up for hours last night. Letting Over seep into my skin, letting it wash over me in waves. Friendship, Farshad, Forever – Over. I woke up after 5 hours of sleep. I made myself a cup of tea in the early morning sunlight. I sat on the floor and I was quiet. Somewhere in the beautiful time between dawn and dusk, my mind had made its peace with Over. I held my tea and I knew.
Over is a good thing. I am not happy with it. I am comfortable with it.
To Farshad: If you ever read this and I know you never will, here’s to LV, mindfucking and chocolate lounge. Thank you. Be good, be yay.
Recently, I’ve felt a restless joy that makes me afraid to move. And it makes me move too much. It slides over me, making me smile broader than usual, making my skin glow eerily, making everything joyful and so very painful. Joy after so long hurts. My mind and body wraps itself around the joy, feeling its strange warmth, its coldness. They touch joy’s many moods, getting accustomed to being happy and shiny as opposed to being dark and twisty. After scrutinizing joy suspiciously, they have resigned themselves to it. Making joy a part of who they are. To the extent that it spills from every part of them.
Joy comes from reading Tolstoy in restless feverish movement while relying on confounded cyberspace. It comes from just another angle, from snapshots, from hobo’s – perhaps not the littlest of them, but the most loved. It comes from fading yellow chappals, that are loved merely because of the situation by which they became mine. I take solace in Tolstoy, in the comfort that the yellowing pages that belonged to my mother bring. And when Tolstoy’s being a dick and doesn’t provide solace, there’s always joy.
I have a choice now.
To Hobo: Olive juice, a thousand times over. Thank you, for joy and the comfiness of boringness. And for making me happy and shiny.