25.7.10

Identity.

(From the Little Black Book)
Monday 5 October 2010 1.15pm, Immigration Office

There is a movie We do not watch, a song which We refuse to sing, a time which does not pass, a memory which are stalled away in a box bearing a sticker that says "Fragile". But sometimes We just cannot help it. So, drown in a sea of people, We start humming to the song which hurts us so badly and in the end, We asphyxiate.

We are addicted to the idea of Memory, aren't We? We keep revisiting the past every night and We play the same movie over and over as if by doing that it would glue the missing pieces together.

I keep asking why do We need to disappear? Why is there a yearning for a nomadic life? Is it because We want to continue our never ending quest for a place where We feel We belong or We simply ache to leave our trails behind? The trails that have stained the perfectness of our Lives.

Would we forever be Jean-Marc, trapped in a world thriving on the physical and shallowness? Or would We forever be Chantal, overcome by unbearable nostalgias of Ourselves? We would gladly follow each other's traipses like a spy lurking around the corner, no matter where We whirl to. If it is only that We believe the Stain is our one link to happiness.

I realise We are tired. We must be the most tired person now, playing catch up all the times. But playing catch up is what keeps us alive, no?

**********

"1221?"

"Yes," she answered resoundingly, with a wide smile on her face.

"Now you can haunt Whoever you want to."

A nice closure to a long exhausting day.



_____________________________
*In a cafe, Jean-Marc and Chantal sit next to a silent couple. After a captivating dialogue speculating about the causes of the couple's silence, Jean-Marc concludes, "Two people in love, isolated from the world, that's very beautiful. But what would they nourish their intimate talk with? However contemptible the world maybe, they still need it to be able to talk together."

"They could be silent," replies Chantal.

"Like those two at the next table?" Jean-Marc laughed. "Oh no, no love can survive muteness."

-Milan Kundera, Identity.