Composed: Wednesday, January 4, 2006,
Delivered: Monday, March 5, 2007 Dear FutureMe,
Unless he’s in your life, he better be out of your head.
It’s the feeling you get when you come across an old diary. You wonder what foreign tongue dribbled its ink in slashes and dashes here; the ascenders and descenders wiggling in sanskrit-samba on the page. You hold the paper within sticking distance of your contact lenses, as if mere proximity will decipher this marriage of rambling thought and tactility. And this for the next page and each page after.
Strange, the stranger one becomes as years tack off.
Invite a you from every year to a party, expect the room to spin with the eclectic meld of personality and characters.
And it was like this when an email from the past dropped into my gmail.
Saaleha circa early 2006.
Evidently, this chick had some issues at the time.
And when I read what “I” wrote back then, one of the voices in my head riposted, “eh?”.
And the others guffawed when the memory-dam breached. “Oh. that.”
(Embarrassed silence amplified in the little-monarchy-in-my-head)
And the fifty-cent epiphany:
The things we lose sleep over now, are the things we won’t dream about in the future.
All will come to pass, even the issues that look set to fail us.
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