How do I ever capture the essence of a being in words? Traipsing through the measured facade, hands out pushing past the barriers on every side, on hands and knees digging underneath the layers in hoping of getting a mere glimpse of what is underneath. The skill of a writer or the skill of a hunter, words constructing traps, chasing after a suggestion, the right breath and feeling snatching thin air with mind made netting.

Him. He. He is? He whom…My mind, perhaps something like a timid dog, curious but wary, wanders around him in idle musing but hesitant to reach out and touch him.  I repeat his name over and over again until it no longer sounds like a word on my tongue. I try to figure out what emotions I associate with him. What thoughts? What feelings? What does this person to me? I want to know these things but I don’t. I don’t want to think too deeply. I don’t want to overthink something that seems so natural, overanalyse, pull it apart, dissect it. But maybe I’m also a little afraid? Afraid of what? Afraid of some kind of realisation what I continue to push into the depths of my subconscious?

Who is he? Who is he to me? They are two different things, but perhaps not mutually exclusive. Thinking about him is like hearing a familiar tune you haven’t heard for a long time, the kind of feeling you get when you can feel the beats resonate inside you, and the melody is more than a perfect craft of something harmonious, but something that is in tune with the inner depths of you. Thinking about him is like the smell of the air on a certain morning on a certain day in spring, fresh and nostalgic, the rays of sunshine hit you, but the warmth that emanates is from the memories of another far away day. Thinking about him is like standing on the top floor of a building, staring out at the distant blue skies and clouds and the hazy forms of mountains and the sudden feeling of infinite possibility folds out in front of you even as you stand in a concrete and steel manmade cage.