A confession

it’s a love/hate relationship, in capital letters.
the first time we met, i got his name wrong. not wrong as such, though, a mere case of mispronunciation. “turn me on.” soft-spoken imperatives. hesitant at first, the curious devotee finally gave in. now we are inseparable. i take him everywhere, yet most of our time is spent in bed. still, this doesn’t stop me from cheating on him. is it his alienness? he’s not like the ones i’ve had before.

i do miss them sometime or other. when i touch them, the tingling in my fingers spreads all over my body. excitement. the smell lingers with me, like a song in your head, long after it is gone. scribbling, i’ve made them mine. and there they are, by the door, turning their backs to me, hiding their artsy faces. when it’s been too long, i can’t help myself but go over there. run my finger down their spines. hug one. sighing. smiling.

and now, now i’ve run out of words. very ironic if you think about it. i leave you with a quote by carmen callil, taken from an essay called “true daemons”:

reading a book on a kindle or an ipad is all very well – in fact it is better than all very well, it is splendidly practical – but it is not the same. a machine can never look like a book: books are far more beautiful. books are like gardens; a kindle or an ipad like a supermarket – it makes life easier, but one doesn’t want to loiter in it. you can fiddle with books. like gardens, they can be wonderful to look at. you can cuddle them and use them like a hot-water bottle, a machine can’t do any of these things.