Love at First Scribble : The Love Affair of a Poet and a Notebook

The afternoon break.

The silent whispers would erupt into bustling conversations and laughter, with the occasional clang of metal snack boxes and desks that take on the roles of cajons for those happy fifteen minutes.

Then the voices recede to a distant blur, then to a serene silence.

Some fidget with the uncomfortable emptiness. Yet, it is those quiet, delicious moments spent staring into the depths of my soulmate, that I truly long for.

He is not perfect, but rather beautifully flawed.

One could never spot him on the shelves of those perfectly lit, fancy bookstores. He is not one carefully clothed in expensive black rayon and gold prints, or stitched with smooth, pearl white pages that would make any writer go weak in the knees.

The edges of his paper cover are worn to mere fibres, with occasional smears of ink from moments when I was buried deep in my thoughts and let the pen go from making rhythmic taps, to weeping through the pages.

He was the shadow I carried along wherever I went. He slowly fused into a part of me I can never part with, company I cannot do without, the only witness to my accomplished sighs, and faltering moments.

When I ruffle through my older companions, burdened and put to rest for good, the heavy scent of yellowing pages is cut through by his fresh smelling leaves of hope.

He bears every midnight scribble, without an iota of judgement. He is home to little surprises in crumpled notes tucked gently into the old binding, that I find on random days and smile at. He is the weight of my dreams, my hope and direction.

What I write in him is just as he is - raw, imperfect and brutally honest. Within his layers lie one too many unposted letters, some mourning the dead and some alive.

Perhaps it’s selfishness, possessiveness to not let any other pair of eyes break into the most intimate chamber of my soul, one where social grace and rules are unheard of. Where only our conversations are sewn shut in the fabric of time.

He’s perfectly imperfect, and he’s mine.

(An experiment with anthropomorphism)

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