A post for you

He is music. He is the air containing music. He brings the harmony of every aspect which magically makes good music together. The divine collaboration that establishes order way beyond the physical realm, way beyond reason, way beyond what I considered truth and real, tangible and proven.

His music rules my quiet fixed air until that moment when I tossed a bagful of question to that mesmerizing orchestra he brings with him everywhere he goes.

Although I ask him difficult questions, I can feel him deeply beyond the incapacity to respond. The genuine need to keep the harmony in the face of debate. The gentleness behind the answers uttered just to provide a semblance of conversation. Gently pushing forward the reality contained in a soft voice which says 'i know it's not enough, but i care' -- of course an interpretation of the verbal answer.

If only he knew that I have decided long ago that there are questions that exist without answers. Getting used to that blissful space of self-preservation strategy, I learned ages ago during university days that questions are form of reaching common ground, to cover the spaces between two souls. To bridge the gap built over time. Not all questions are meant to be answered. There are some that just needed to be heard. Some that needed release. Some that only be asked to people who I intimately care about.

Self-preservation. That old devil of strategy to keep me going from one level to another as I climb mountains in life's journey. That familiar way of living, not unlike breathing, to keep the boundaries clear as crystal. To prevent one from stepping to the softest side of me. Just the thought of someone crossing that clear edge of border makes me cringe. Nobody can cross that else I will be as fragile as Daly's clocks. Dissolving, shapeless, melting into the person who dare cross the boundary. I will be history long before the seconds hand move to the next bead.

Now I am left with tides of emotion. I don't know what moves me from one moment to the next when my thoughts were just occupied by him. Maybe that's life for me now, you just go and do stuff because you have to go and do stuff. Swinging from one end to the other - moving through the motions. Tiring. It sounds so old. Antique and cranky and fragile. But it calms me for now.

Whenever reality hit me hard, my imagination tends to fly to the clear blue wide expanse of deep oceans. Inviting, exposed yet secretive, calling me with the voice so deep that I cannot resist the feeling of smooth sand beneath my feet, waves crashing into my weak knees eventually its gentle waters enveloping my whole body.

Ocean heals.

Waves full of possibilities. Ocean waters full of tiny worlds asking us to make it real. Small, subtle waves, produced by wind moving gently over the surface. Without air, who will hear the longing of the ocean? Without the playful wind, how will the ocean water gracefully move?

To you: You don't need to be so mature to answer these questions I tossed. I just need you to be. You showed me who you are by being still. You showed your love by answering me with a sweet post card you denied as your diary. The letter contains an invitation for further talks and conversation and chat over coffee. That alone made me feel so loved. I feel so cared for. I feel protected.

This is just our beginning.