`slow `ephemeral `burn

memory is such a fickle twit. i go back to the time when i had sat with my uncles and aunts on a platform at the charbagh railway station and waited for god knows whose train to arrive or leave. i remember there were a bunch of us and they were couples, as i said. uncles and aunts. all married for love. two from severed poles of the country, united by love, to love. the other two married for love, again belonging to different forms of social stigma. i remember that beautiful night, away from my parents. i was alone and nimble, with the extended family. i had experienced the nourishment of love with them. their laughter, their collective joys, almost confections, contagious. cut to the present. thawed, lathered and cut evenly, sloven into a loveless jive that life is. i sit in a room barren of emotions, where being emotionless is worn on the sleeves. chewing on my tongue i think of the a certain voice that rings in my ears, a voice that is vocal of words in a language too homely to me to be foreign then. a voice full of fragile vacancies, vacancies pockets of forlorn love and trust. no trust, hesitancy and the strings of the guitar reside there now. the voice ringing in my drug-, alcohol-, hasheesh-addled brain. a brain so full of thinking and making meanings of things all and sundry a brain washed out of all the loving, yet looking to love. i close my eyes for a fraction of a day and the person to whom that voice belongs is sitting, is sitting next to me on the platform. i am nine, if not more. and he's with me. and that there in the wafty raspberry aloofness is the nonexistence of unhappiness, the butterpaper of memory with its tricks trips me once again. am i here//was i there// who was the nine year old? why is bon iver's music so ~ ~