Great Conversations

A warm night, under a clear, starlit sky and over cool glasses of brew. In our life full of wasted concern on trivial things, routine work and inane conversations, three long-lost friends talked about things shared only by souls of differing lives but of similar principles. The subject didn't matter, nor gravity--- it was at times scholarly, academic, genial, philosophical, argumentative, gossipy and even dirty brought about by euphoria in borderline intoxication; but a common theme runs: the meaning of existence. Fate it seems have scattered us like dust, separating us from things dear and from lives most precious--- but not that night--- it was a night where we saw how boys became men in the course of life's numerous defining moments--- how one of us stared at death and said "Is this it? Is this all?" and strengthened his will to live,a life with meaning and dignity most of us may not appreciate. Life in its very essence, is a beautiful struggle, and those conversations we may have to thank for someday.
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It is surprising how words may heal a man. Unknown to us, the process of talking things out gave concrete pictures to emotional baggages long hidden inside the abstractness of the subconscious. Our culture taught us to be tough, to be less open, to ignore pain and forget everything that hurts us the most. Well I'm not too big on holding back and all those bulls#*t, life is too short for hypocrisy--- never did good to me holding back anything anyway. So unknown to my friends, I conducted(manipulated may be the word)an experiment of opening life's faucet to full(thank God for alcohol). I realized then that these two are greater men than I am. I am honored to be their friend.
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So now I'm here, going back to life's routine. I see the world as if I've only seen them for the first time--- and it's a good thing. I used to think I have learned everything I need to learn and experienced everything that is worth living in this world; now I know there is so much more out there. Everytime I see something meaningless, like people ignoring those who love them most or chasing money instead of their dreams, I try to remember those conversations: souls talking about youth, love and an eternity of ideas.

The Lady by the Pond

Embraced, they slept with fragrant willows by,

On hammocks, the autumn breeze gently rocking;

Prairie birds’ choir swayed the rusty leaves fly,

Slowly blanket a lover’s vow in silent whispering.

And they danced Infinite, for time comes untouched;

Untold emotions dropping slow on lips wanting.

With the lapping waters attuned, moontide caressed;

Two world’s love oblivious of a season’s parting.

But at heartbeat's end, as the night cricket sings,

The Lady walks to where sweet wild lilies bloom’d.

Under the pale light shone the veil, soon forgotten;

Droplets of tears fell—let the pond calm once again.

Infatuation

She flowed like satin with the slow bass line over the loudspeakers, dreamy— ethereal almost. Her eyes stroked the alternating space-filled light and darkness, briefly illuminating her soft, pale skin— glowing even under the dim light that embraced us. She was all I can see.

“We’re all alone.”

I reeled myself back from the depths of a vision that’s acutely overcoming my senses. It took me several seconds to talk, and several more to notice the dancefloor was empty.

“Yes, uhm…”

“Never mind,” her words seemed like eternity. “I like dancing with the 80’s.”

“What’s your name again,” I asked mistakenly, feeling stupid having said it.

“It’s Angela.”

“Angela. I’m Mike.”

“Yeah I know.”

Her hands felt featherlight on my shoulders, beckoning me towards her smile. I drew her closer, our bodies touching ever so slightly, feeling each other’s warmth as we swayed to the slow groove caressing the night.

“You’re beautiful.”

She tried to hide her smile in the dark. I supposed many men have professed something similar to her; so I tried, in spite of great emotions coursing through my veins, to stay calm.

“Do you like my perfume,” she asked coyly. “We’ve been dancing for a while now and…”

“Like the morning when lilacs bloom.”

“Are you a writer? I thought you’re a science guy or something.”

“Right now I’m a poet.”

“Say another line.”

I could have said a million other things but found myself staring, mesmerized by her hazelnut eyes and fragrant breath that reminded me of calm mountains after a rain.

“You really do like me.”

“Is this love,” I said, and realized too late that I was thinking much too loud.

“Hey, my friends,” she replied instead with a bit of embarrassment. “They’re calling me. I guess we’ll see each other soon.”

“Can I have your number?”

She wrote on a piece of paper and smiled hastily as she went for the exit. I found myself looking after her, unmindful of the music becoming louder and the crowds thicker.

I went back to my table where my friends are drowning themselves with beer, shouting back and forth with laughter and inane conversations. One of them approached me and patted me on the back.

“That was Angela, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Your in luck. I had her last summer, and Rem here see her regularly. No strings.”

I reached for the nearest mug of the strongest brew and tried to drown something deep inside me wanting to burst. By the nth bottle, I stood and shook to clear my senses for a toast.

“I toast,” said I to no one in particular. “To youth, to women, to life… and everything in between!”

Then they replied with a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Amen!”

And to Angela, I thought. And to Infatuation— the short love prose of the heart.