He writes to me saying (or so I dream), “And these are my parting words to you dear Reader: May you have the wisdom to be simple, and the humor to be happy.”
Just when I am puzzled with whether what I am doing is consonant with what I should be doing, he puts everything into perspective with this message. Wisdom to be simple and humor to be happy. But when I read him (I know it’s him, versions of his being in every character he writes about, like those pages with proceedings of a story comprising a novel), it becomes a rather unsettling situation. The four walls around turn into oak and bougainvillea trees, the road across turns into a stream, voice of mynas and eagles gradually start pouring into my ear as the vehicles disappear into their own smoke, sun’s striking rays turn dew drops into pearls and a moist smell in the air with a pinch of periodic cool breeze sets my heart to rest. But the depth in the hearts and minds of his characters compel me to conflict reality. I am in love with these characters, well aware that they are too pure to be real; him, the nameless lover, in particular. While its happening to love someone who’d never die, it is also saddening, to love someone who has been living only in stories. So I fall in love with the one who writes them, for the protagonist is his reflection (or so I’d like to believe). His name resonates into his reflection’s, his face carved like the character of his reflection, his voice…I have never heard his voice but I have listened to his words and he sounds like them (or so I hope) and so does his reflection, and his touch like his reflection’s (or so I imagine), like the meeting of two pair of eyes as an age old longing comes to a sweet end, like the ink surrendering itself in the hands of paper.