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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

I like the fact that we live on a day-to-day basis, or even a meal-to-meal basis: breakfast-lunch-post-lunch, protein-shake/lemon juice, dinner, soup, more soup; which is pretty pragmatic in generic terms. However that’s not to say we don’t think long-term, we do. Yet on the other hand, I like the way we’re spontaneous, and (un)plan things. Suddenly there’s an assembly gathered at 6th in thirty minutes, junkie nights, or sleep-in Saturdays. We laugh discreetly and/or excessively, and take turns being indecisive and mildly willful for good measure. I like how you leave the last one for me, I like how you like me leaving one for you in the morning.

I love the fact that we eat like maniacs.

I like how you block the mirror with your Guns when I’m trying to put on my lenses, or how I try to walk-in on you. I like our language, the numbers, the glyphs, and that we both understand each other as whales.

You are my canvas as I am yours, and also a novel to be completed, a budding encyclopaedia of todays and tomorrows. We panic together and have umlaut O’s for faces, embark on sacred quests to find stolen lighters and brighter lights, and make fun of Murrlcolm. I, however, have to occasionally face Marius, Ridzaal and Ism, but I am undeterred as I make plans to steal eggs and misplace them in vehicle compartments, all the time.

I like how we sneak in and out of stairs and spaces, according to the wind direction so that we don’t get caught for littering. And we fart like freedom. It’s funny that it’s such a taboo and a gendered discretion, resulting in much social ineptitude and even funnier, denial. We, on the other hand, the knights and knightress-es (Simon’s invention) of many round tables, talk about it on a nightly basis, depending on availability. We are the true post-modernists, rejecting kitsch, embracing the Kunderan ideals. And I know how only you’d understand my lack of proper expressions and circumlocution, my parentheses, and even then, not all the time you’d earnestly confess. But you like it all the same, keeping/pilfering all my handwritten drafts and five-minute paragraphs, You’re brilliant, la you’d say.

I vehemently disagree only to seal partial failure with a kiss.

Then, there’s that body thing which I could never agree of but you tell me that my fat-farming habits are endearing, if not quite radiant; and my spare parts aren’t that spare after all. And I believe you. Now that we’re both making resolutions after KL, we’re training like wrestlers, I’m beginning to like high-fibred bread, and we sleep like marsupials. Also, we’ve found a common friend in Antacid and Eno, and your library’s disappearing (I’m sorry) because I’ve been borrowing most of them but if forever is like what we’ve imagined it to be, then these books were never really missing from your shelf.

And you rave good. I complement you so well because I rave funny with my full-forced krumping. So we’re like stars and stripes, bunnies and eggs, bacon and cholesterol suppressants. Speaking of breakfast,  I’ve somehow lost the habit twelve years ago but I’ve since re-discovered the calories of love, with love.

Each time I ask myself if I know who you are, if I will ever know everything about you, if you will be unconditional even if you eventually know everything about me. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just one of those metaphysical universals, about imperfect knowledge, anticipation and among other things. Like the secret to Maggi is in the seasoning.

Lettuce be together, always.


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