Some evenings, I just sit on my couch, book in hand, looking out of the window. Not reading, just staring blankly into the vastness. I wonder if I was gone, would you miss me? Every morning I wake up and I call you. I talk to you throughout the day in between tasks that demand my attention. We talk about our day, about past incidents, about future aspirations. Sometimes we talk about sundry things - the weather, football, other people. We talk & talk. We talk a lot. Sometimes, amidst the madness of our really busy days, one of us messages the other - "I miss you". I wonder what it really means. I think the simplest explanation is - I miss talking to you? What does that make me? Am I my words, am I my voice? What if tomorrow morning I woke up like Nakata? No recollection of anything, no words. Not knowing what to say or how to talk? But I woke up next to you and you never left my side again. Would you still miss me?
Sometimes I think we try too hard. Too hard to be liked, to be loved, to be wanted, to be missed, to not be forgotten. Why do we want to be remembered? Wouldn't it be nice if I was gone today and tomorrow you wouldn't remember me? Why do I want to be remembered? When I am gone, would I know I am still remembered?
I know I am replacable. I know I am not special. That you see everything in me, but it's in parts. And part by part, I am replacable. That if I am gone suddenly, without notice, without warning - you will be surprised but tomorrow will be just another day. The same day without the talk. May be you will miss the sound of my laughter on the phone, may be no one will ask you if you had lunch. May be a week will pass. But you will have lunch everyday without anyone asking if you did. You will still cross the road. Then slowly, or not so slowly, may be fastly, you will forget. The sound of my laughter, the sound of my voice, my talk, me. I will be a distant name on the far far horizon. But I was more. I was more than my words. I was more than my voice. I was more. But you and I never got to know.
Sometimes I think we try too hard. Too hard to be liked, to be loved, to be wanted, to be missed, to not be forgotten. Why do we want to be remembered? Wouldn't it be nice if I was gone today and tomorrow you wouldn't remember me? Why do I want to be remembered? When I am gone, would I know I am still remembered?
I know I am replacable. I know I am not special. That you see everything in me, but it's in parts. And part by part, I am replacable. That if I am gone suddenly, without notice, without warning - you will be surprised but tomorrow will be just another day. The same day without the talk. May be you will miss the sound of my laughter on the phone, may be no one will ask you if you had lunch. May be a week will pass. But you will have lunch everyday without anyone asking if you did. You will still cross the road. Then slowly, or not so slowly, may be fastly, you will forget. The sound of my laughter, the sound of my voice, my talk, me. I will be a distant name on the far far horizon. But I was more. I was more than my words. I was more than my voice. I was more. But you and I never got to know.
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