Happy Valentine's Day?

Since we hung up last night, it’s been raining cats and dogs. 

Thoughts are so personal.

Yet we love to share them from time to time. Why?

Because we are compulsively optimistic that the other person will understand and feel it exactly the way we do.

Language is a barrier. It disconnects. Sigs, smells, patting an eyelid, a gentle hand movement, a subtle pout – those are the things that connect. Not language. 

Words, yes they are hollow and so is everything else. But we are a curious set. We know this and yet we make that attempt to communicate.

Sigh. I am solving Eigen Vectors. You still punching Kafka?

A minute went by and then an hour. He grew tired of waiting. The still rain kept on beating on the sill with the insouciance of an addict.

 Naa, no Kafka or anyone. I was inebriated the whole time. Even while I was talking to you.

How did I miss that? Do you know what I did today?

Tell me.

No, I won’t. It doesn't matter.  What did you do?

No tell me. As if everything else that we talk will go on to make the great epistolary novel of the century.I’m interested.

Precisely that’s why I can’t tell you.

The word mundane doesn’t have enough mellifluous synonyms.

If you didn’t want to share why did you mention it in the first place? That’s why I don’t like anyone other than me. At least I can moderate my own behavior.

I wanted to coax a reaction out of you. Because in this story, like you said, we exchange places, poet and muse, muse and poet.  Happy Valentine’s Day.

Eh? Not the 'happy' ending I imagined. 

You too.