What I Did Today

Every morning, I sit religiously to write to you, about you. The wooden table is hard and rough. It has a few books that I read these days - some detective, fantasy and erotic novels, a haphazard desultory collection. You would not have heard of them, another sign of my decay. Blank sheets of paper held together by a red paper clip, the one I bought in a souvenier store, when you weren't there with me. I write with a narrow pen that leaks ink. There is a small window that looks out to the open sea. Today the sea looks like a pale woman's nipple. The sky looks a lifeless blue bordering on white, as if it cannot be bothered to gather more hue on a day like this. The sun scorches and seeps into my skin, while the ceiling fan drones, a never-ending circular noise, the only sound that reminds me of life. There is no desire left in me, except to write. I wake up every morning with this single purpose in mind. I eat two meals a day, some bread and soup. After dinner at night, I walk for an hour by the sea. There is not a soul in the beach and the dark waters (except on a full moon day) call me to them. During these hours, sometimes, I think of us, how silly we were, how we held hands like little children. They don't seem real to me now. I must be growing old. But before I forget what it is, I need to write. And yet, how easy it is to say this! When I begin writing there is not a word that wants to stay on paper. My resolutions disappear and I stare at these blank sheets. You encircle and outshine every word of mine. What a torture, I would have thought, had I known earlier how elusive you are. How inadequate and how futile! It is evening now and through the window, I see the sun in all its glory.