Idealist

I had yet another frustration-filled post queued up in drafts and ready for publishing. For lack of any other (good) ideas and in order not to go back on my promise of weekly semi-readable, ranty, poem-ish content, I was just about to go ahead and post it when I decided  to give myself (and you) a break and to only write about things that bring me joy for a while. I can use my writing to chronicle all the things we all know are horribly wrong but cannot/refuse to talk about, but the past few weeks of doing that in every class conversation and homework assignment and work meeting are threatening to submerge me in a black hole of misery and i’m-just-going-to-stay-home-not-shower-or-speak-to-anyone and that is unhealthy to say the very least.

I’m yours, joyfully. And no, my joyful self doesn’t care how cheesy you think  that line was 🙂

***

Every conversation is an exercise in intellectual acrobatics. Dedicated student goes to bed with ideas each night; wrings them out of wet hair every Saturday morning, smells them on your breath–

I’m only now learning that ideas are not two-dimensional and confined to the space between a flashing cursor and a space bar. They are things you can interrogate and dispute, over which you can run inquisitive hands.

Growing enamored with notions of people and keeping them in messages marked unread like pages bent at the corner, so you can revisit the loveliness later.

Ideas are alive and straining against chest muscles, rib cage and flesh; they sniff and cough and snore and shift restless limbs. They jump out of photographs of men in fitted trousers grazing their ankles and women with hair reaching stiffly above their heads.

The idea of you dancing on a floor whose grooves and cracks never expected to feel your feet on top of forbidden– haunted– ground is chilling and oddly inspirational.

Obsessed with the possibility that you materialized from lines of conversation layered on top of each other, conversation about the irrational belief that you exist at all.