We’re literally verging on death and no one even bothered to properly orient us on what it would be like.
There’s the West Valley Fault, ready to strike a fatal blow that will make buildings crumble and set an entire city afire. There is always the Tokhang, a ruthless method that could practically annihilate and gun down anyone through gossips and word of mouth. There’s the brewing tension between the North Korea and the US, the possibility of nuclear war and bioterrorism breathing at the back of our necks.
Earlier today, a friend of mine witnessed an accident. A death, I hazard. Broken bones and crumpled body. A loud explosion, a worker coming face to face with electrocution. He fell from the roof of the footbridge, she said, near Session road. Mortality is easing up on us, she said.
So before any of these befall on us — any of these dooms — as it inevitably will, I would like to ask you to go out with me. We’ll go anywhere, anywhere at all. Everywhere, nowhere, wherever we want. We’ll talk and dance and scream and exist all at once. We’ll build bonfires and watch the stars and roll under the moon beams and in silence and anticipation, we will wait for the arrival of the morning light.
We will savour the last sliver of our days and we will hope. We will carry the splinters of our bones and we will find our way out of all these harms, into sea mists and sunsets in indigos and golds. We will never cease hoping. We will go on living and with each breath we draw against everything that happened to us, each beauty we make out of our sorrow and uncertainties, we will mock this grey, grey world.
I think the best relationship I had with someone is the one I shared with my last roommate. It’s almost non-existent.
So, we inhabited the room for more than 9 months — but we never talked to each other. We never asked each others’ names. We never asked how our days were, the progress or backlash in our acads and work.
We never dined together, maybe noticed the slight changes — haircut, slump shoulders — but never said anything about it. We never offered compliments, and we never offered comfort. We never talked, we never listened. We treated each other invisibly, but not in a cold, harsh way.
She occupied the bed near the door; I, the one near the window. Her desk was filled with make-ups and soaps and lotion, all items meticulously arranged and organized. Mine, well, you can imagine the chaos — piles of readings and books, crumpled scratch papers, a pinwheel, old pens, acrylic, brushes, pallette etc.
Her bed was always made, her bedsheet smoothed out, her blanket folded. Mine, not so. Maybe I managed to make it twice in a year but that was the best I got.
She would leave in the morning, and she wouldn’t bother to wake me up. I would arrive in the evening and find the lights off, and I wouldn’t bother to turn it on. I would just quietly gather my readings and laptop so as not to wake her up, and I would head to the second floor and read and work till the dead hours of the night. I would return to our room at 5 AM to sleep. She would begin her day a few minutes after.
We silently recognized each others’ needs and preferences, and we never tried to invade or alter anything.
The kind of association that we had (if any) may sound alienating to a normal person but it was actually comforting, and possess tranquility in its own right. The way we never attempted to breach the rims of our privacy, the way we never cross each others’ existence despite our close proximity in a very intimate space — bedroom. We only shared geniality, and that was all.
So there we were, in one room. Her with her cellphone; I with my books. We never talked, never even asked each others’ name in the course of our time. There were no expectations between us. There were no disappointments either.