Lines

There was once a time where the bountiful treasures offered to me by this world would pique my interest and leash me onto never-ending adventures. There used to be times when the charm of Earthly desires lured me into everlasting journeys, and I would utilize every opportunity to express those cherished memories. Though after filling every notebook, every page, every line, you realize that no matter how much of your heart you ache to pour into your writing, it can never amount to those specific words spoken to that specific someone.

Outside, the snow drifted, pivoted, danced in alluring patterns free of care only to then add to the insignificant layer already piled up on the roadside. Cars occasionally lumbered past, with some skidding to halts and their drivers hurling insults towards inconsistent pedestrians sprinting across, their faces frozen in casual stares as if the cold has wiped them of emotions.

Momentarily, I caught a glance at the reflection imprinted on the window, regret being a possible description of its state. Though I doubted anyone else could tell. Sitting here alone besides a window exhausted from age; sleep being a luxury I could only dream of; and the sweet bitterness of an all black coffee forcing what cells left functional in my body to strive for at least another hour.

The pen in hand and letter in front just barely managed to reel me back to reality as I began to read.

***

Dear Maria,

It's been a long time, we haven’t talked for a while but there’s been something I would like to say for a long time-

***

I scrunched the paper into a disfigured ball. No, I can never get past the beginning of this letter. I tossed the paper and it arched a projectile trail, landing besides dozens of other lumps of paper waste.

One last piece of paper remain within my torn out notebook. One last chance. I ripped it out gently, paying great detail to leave no ragged edges on the paper; gripped tightly my worn out pen; exhaled, and with my breathe dissipating into a mist of vapour above, I began to write.

***

Dear Maria,

We've known each other for a long time. Perhaps you might feel like you've known me for eternity. Though I've wished, even prayed – every second without you – to prolong those moments together for just an eternity longer. It may seem quite odd that I'm writing a letter to you in this age, though I'm sure you understand the reason behind this motif. Therefore this shall be the first letter I've ever written to you, but also the last words I will ever dedicate to you and I hope you can accept that since every mention regarding you pierces my heart with unimaginable grief.

I still remember clearly the time we've spent together as kids. Without a single care in the world and the only worry being what our next game should be. Reminiscing now, I can picture myself so clearly next to you with our own paper and drawing pencils competing for who could draw the most perfect line. How ridiculous I was, boasting that my straight line extending across the page was superior to that of your squiggles. How foolish I was to lecture you about the beauty of a line. I sat by your side on that picnic bench in an Autumn dandelion field, watching you draw squiggle after squiggle. Though I insisted you to draw a straight line, to add some properness to the drawing, to represent a more adult like art style. Yet still, you drew the squiggles.

Then suddenly, time flew by, and we were seventeen. The scraping of ballpoint pens atop hardened wood desks, and mindless banter among friends occupied the lessons. And at breaks, you would share meaningless gossip picked up with that keen ear of yours; or plan our weekends full of splendour; or even dream of grandeur possibilities together in an undecided future.

Though through the years, our favoured meeting spot altered from that picnic bench to an abandoned rooftop carpark. With traffic and all the noises of commuters a distant echo below; a starry night sky illuminating above; and just the two of us in our own illusive world – it felt like nothing would ever go wrong. Yet when you bragged and demonstrated the new dance moves you learned each time, I sat by your side, watching your arms curve in elegant loops with your body following suit. Yet I still persisted on straighter, more refined, movements. I suggested to add some order to your tangled mess. But still, you bent, twisted, curved, into impossible angles.

Almost immediately after, we somehow graduated university, and as abruptly as I was thrown into adulthood, I became occupied in an endless cycle of responsibilities. Politics; contracts; legal duties; the whole bunch. However whenever I finally had a moments peace, forms were needed to be signed or issues between colleagues had to be solved. Everyday became a monotone routine with a schedule that seldomly changed. People may have commented on the melancholic life style of indefinite repeats though I've always rebuked them, thinking my straight-lined pattern in life gave it meaning.

You, on the other hand, left marks everywhere you've explored. A wild night out and miraculously you're calling from Prague, a few spilled drinks and suddenly you've switched professions again, and a protest unrelated to you whatsoever gave you the chance – to slip away from work – to traverse across half the country by dinner. I was angry, fed up, but mostly worried. We argued restlessly sometimes, though it wasn’t until you left – and I began to frequent that café you loved – that I realized.

The corner café, a bend around where we lived, accommodating a unique art style that somehow stood out to you. With a mediocre taste and never enough service, it barely managed to scrape by. Of course the entire building was slightly slanted and curved in an alarming angle, which probably grabbed your attention every time we passed by.

Nonetheless I realized too late. Only after you left, I began to retrieve those broken memories within me to try and piece together a whole ‘you'. I realized that I never managed to understand you. Me and my structured boring life never had the chance to love the exciting side of you, trying to mold you into my monotonous mechanical schedules. I regret, regret not allowing you to show me the joy of life. But time passed. And life has moved on – for both of us differently.

I hope now, you will have the chance to draw the squiggles and curves you always wanted in life without me.

Sincerely,

He who was never meant to be.

***

I began to unravel the paperback envelope in preparation to encase the letter within.  The letter slid into its resting place inside the envelope snuggly. I lifted the envelope gently up to the curve of my lips and as I wetted the edges, the taste of stale wood and parched glue empowered my senses. I sealed the opening shut, ran my fingers along the edges, pressuring the sides, welding them together.

I never thought watching someone draw a line would be this painful. I sat by her side, watching her draw a perfect straight line now.

Though I begged her to make curves.

I begged her to add some softness to the sharpness of life. Yet still, she drew the line, more perfect than before. But this time, it was accompanied by a sound,

beep...beep...beeeeeeeeep...

I set the envelope down at rest next to her.

A sound that marked the end. And that was the final perfect line she drew. No room for erasers, no chance for another curve, just a straight cold line, that left me hollow.

Thus with one last look, I sealed the enclosed room, pressured the door close, welding her in my memories as part of that once perfect world.