I want to write. I feel like I have so much stuff to say but it's still swirling in my head, muddied pools of thought obscuring the bottom and I am led to imagine that if I give it some time, let the mud settle, I'll be able to see the bottom clearly and then perhaps I can give you a glimpse into the depths of my spirit. That however is the procrastinator in me, a persona I have nurtured so well that in the kingdom where everything happens tomorrow, I shall be crowned king, tomorrow.
I have been trying to find myself for a long while now, the me that I lost, whose hand I let go of in the crowded marketplace and when I turned round could catch no glimpse of. I have been running around the marketplace shouting his name, frantically grabbing hold of sleeves and shoulders of strangers who looked like him, apologising and running on.
Over supper every evening, upon realising that one chair is empty, the others ask whither he has gotten and I reply with a shake of the head, looking at the food on my plate, now cold and tasteless. I cannot bring myself to look into their eyes, I am afraid of the shame I will find reflected there.
Everyday I go to the marketplace, sit next to the fruit vendor and stare at the throngs of people before me swarming back and forth, ants, little ants, little happy ants in a mill, and I hope to see him somewhere in the crowd smiling and waving for me to come see what he's found. Everyday the sun sets and I go home to an empty seat, cold meal and shame. The others bid me take my sustenance, for tomorrow, they say, is a new day and there will be fresh fruit in the market.
Today I met you in the marketplace. I was not looking for you and would have missed you but for the fruit vendor and the basket of lemons that rolled to your feet. Today the table was full and supper was warm and filling. Today I looked into your eyes, smiling eyes and I was not afraid, was not ashamed. Today is tomorrow beginning.