Dear stranger friend
After spending countless nights trying to gift wrap my finite vocabulary into a fancy email, cherry picked words carefully strung into lines, that keep disappearing and reappearing on my computer screen like the ocean spume – fleeting and pointless, I wonder what it would be like if the obliviously wondering pointer finds its way to the send button before the discard button can find it.
May be you will write back, end with a question, expecting an answer. We might hit it off instantly or probably take a little while to find our comfort zone. Perhaps I will gradually become a little careless about what I write and how I put it. Soon we will be talking about our likes and dislikes, hobbies and pet peeves, birthdays and anniversaries. You will tell me about that neighbor you have a crush on, about that recently released movie, about the song that you kept humming all day. And I will tell you about my lovely morning walks, about the shows that I am binge watching and amusing tales and funny episodes from road trips and vacations. We will share a piece of our worlds with each other, sometimes trying hard to impress and other times trying hard to express.
Then the freshness will wear out, the humdrum of our lives will take over – we will still write to each other, but instead of your new love, you will tell me about your annoying colleague, instead of the songs and movies you will complain about the honks and the reckless drivers from your traffic packed commute, while I tell you about the unforgiving weather and my dreary workplace. And when we will have finally shared everything about our lives that we think is even remotely interesting, and when we will have run out of all the other mundane things to talk about, the almost everyday conversations will turn to weekend conversations and slowly slide into once in a while notes.
And before we know it, we would be spending countless lonely mornings refreshing the inbox, over and over, each time a hint of despair slipping into an almost infinite optimism and there will be no unread messages. Soon enough the despair will take over, it always does, much like the shadow that grows gingerly through the brightest of the days and eventually engulfs the darkest of the nights. An uncomfortable silence. We will think about one another, once in a while, but by then we will have lost touch. We will not know where to start, what to write, when to stop? I will wait to hear from you and you will wait to hear from me, but we will have drifted apart. Our existence for the other will be like the muffled sound of the TV from the neighbor downstairs, too soft to follow and too loud to ignore.
And then one day I will look back and wish I had not sent that first pointless gift wrapped email. We would probably still be friendly strangers and not estranged friends.