Monday, October 31, 2016

Monday's letter

I had questions for days

what is the name of your power company? 
is serving the army a compulsory thing in your country?
is the last day of the year as hectic as ours?
are there large vegetable and food markets on the streets every Saturday? 
what does a supermarket look like?
are you allowed to  freely park on the street?
have the leaves turned yellow yet? 
is it foggy? 
how much does a pencil cost over there?
their answers are but a few clicks away 
so easy to find out 



who would answer the rest ?

what are the notes on your electricity bill?
have you ever learned how to fire a weapon?
do you run like crazy to finish everything the last minute?
do you like standing and looking at the food before you buy it?
does it still take you forty-five minutes to shop?
do you tread gently on the fallen leaves, or do you like to hear them crash under your foot?
are your headlights on in the morning?
do you remember ever buying a pencil? if not, what do you remember buying as a child?

not all my questions make sense, I know 
but there are so many little things that do
having them answered does half the trick for most people

it's like with photographs we take
we see the faces and the setting behind
we take a peek into the world unknown or
distant, but we can't smell the air, can't feel
the floors under our feet and definitely can't 
sense the breath upon our skin, or get goosebumps 
or get the undertaste of smells upon our palate 

yet, the perception of the world allows for bits
of cognitive or sensory sequences, a kind of synaesthetic journey
back to your kitchen, where the electricity bill is pinned 
on a cork board, so the paper smells alike 
back to the inside of your car, where the air mixes with leather
a mild suggestion of smoke and a fraction of supermarket bags
back to the softness or the hardness of your skin depending on the tasks it once undertook 
(having fired weapons, for instance, leaves a man's muscles tainted with sudden grapple moves
given the right circumstances, while the absence of experience in firing guns makes their fingers more flexible than rigid, like a child's) 
back to your daily routines, running around could suggest sweat 
and I don't remember seeing you perspire but I recall you saying I'm so thirsty now
inordinately drinking from a bottle of fizzy water that to me seemed the same as soda
back to the sounds of your footsteps on the bathroom floor, the busy city street, on the sand
on the tiles, so quiet as if you weren't even walking 
back to the school diploma picture of a boy who one day will go out to reach for the moon
and the smell of sharpened pencil scrapps on his palms 
back to whoever you are 
that to me is the familiar stranger 

then perhaps my autonomous sensory meridian response would kick in again 
and every word spoken would trigger the touch no distance can obstruct _ and, isn't this amazing, darling? 


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