There comes a time in your life when you encounter a person; a person you only see through the digital screen while messing around with a friend’s newsfeed and thinking to yourself “Oh, how fabulous his life must be, he seems to be having a good time, the sun must be still up there and he is still awake, but I’m going to the bed and let me over-think about it until I fall asleep,” a person akin to the ones that you overtly romanticise with when you read a particularly dry and sarcastic but sensitive book. A person far, far away but still busy sharpening the edges of your brain, a person who exists in your curate world. This person when he springs up in real life, stays for just a few seconds or minutes on the human timescale and it will be so random, so ordinary, (so much for taking things for not granted) that you naturally resist to think about it, the resistance is there, up there, but after a few days or a few weeks, everything falls into place. It is not some sort of a puzzle or a mystery to solve but it seeps inside you, enough to maybe devote many distractions of your precious time, wondering all at the same time but it falls into place as if it’s the one free answer, answerable, for those multiple questions in your life.
I know his name, but not just enough to track him down, bow down to Google Search, and have a spur-of-the-moment-yolo-ing by finishing my last savings for that one way flight across the continent, writing a heart-winning message to him, bumping into him intentionally like an international coincidence and give him the shock of his life as it does in every sappy movies. But there’s something magical about wanting to know a person that is so out of your reach. You don’t know its real yet but you know its real enough to start searching for what to do with that “answer” already on your lap.
I know that he will continue his day until the sun also sets in my part of the world. I know that like everyone else, he must be going through a harrowing moment, sometimes, if things get difficult. I know that he has a vulgar habit of doing a thing or two secretly whenever he is alone and bored. I know that he is waiting and sometimes he let go of the waiting, too soon, only to be dejected and like me, he runs down the street to check the newest concerts with another stranger on her way to figure this man out. I know that he hoards a lot too and tries too hard to be cool and laugh at himself because it is so lame.
The little things that you can read when someone suggests you an endearingly intriguing book on a bad day, while sitting nonchalantly on the subway, is pure joy. Even more, he translates for you so that you know that ‘Atopos’ is something which is unclassifiable, of a ceaselessly unforeseen originality.
I have read A Lover’s Discourse for the 3rd time today since 2016. I have realised that he was in fact describing himself in French. But he is a stranger that I’ll never meet again, and that makes me love him even more.