Somebody is calling out your name. Or is it your name? It sounds familiar but no, no it can’t be you. That name, means nothing to you now. It means nothing at all. Then what does? What is your name? How does it matter? All familiarity is slipping away from your hands. Where are you? Somebody is calling out your name.

There will be this evening when the stars will have exhausted themselves and your memory will be made up of broken homes and smashed mirrors. Everything will haunt you: the nameless, faceless you that you don’t know anymore. Look at your shadow. Do you see how it folds into you? Don’t try to pick up the pieces that evening.
Maybe someone will call out to you and you’ll look away from the stars, distracted for a moment from the now familiar unfamiliarity.

Or maybe you won’t look back that night. Maybe the sound will come back to you in the empty corridor that you walk in some other evening, some other day and its intimacy will stop you, make you wonder how you got there. The sound will come back to you when you are sick and looking at the fan above your head. It will echo inside your ears, your head, and your body with every circle the fan completes. You will fall asleep looking at it, not knowing what exhausted you so much when you wake up. Is the fever gone? Can you get up now? Because, somebody is calling out your name.

It will be the last of the rains; the romance of the monsoons will be long past and you will wonder if you let the rain in too much, if the window that you opened to hear the rain fall down was your flaw. You’ll wonder if rain was your hamartia. You’ll never know. Can you be saved? Nobody knows. Somebody is calling out your name.
Was it all an illusion? The whole thing that I thought we had? Sometimes I ask myself if everything is an illusion, if the book that reminded me of you was really there, if this whole universe is just a glimmer of someone else’s reality. Is there any escape? Is there any fix? Where are we? What are we doing?
Somebody is calling out your name.

You are no longer yourself. When this namelessness, this loss of yourself becomes your identity nothing will matter and yet everything will: the colour of your shirt, the sound of your voice when you wake up, your uncombed hair, the way you look at her, the way she doesn’t look back at you, the way the October leaves fall all over your head. You will understand that memory documents not the love we had but what we perhaps never will have. You become like that man on the road with ruffled hair who stares into the distance searching for meaning. You become the oblivion.
Somebody is calling out your name. Is it your name? No, it cannot be. Where are you? Who are you? It doesn’t matter. You are finally free, free falling. Close your eyes, spread your arms. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.


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