There are no boundaries between his room and hers. It is psychotic, especially since their worlds are continents apart. I cannot speak the truth. The rawness will burn you. How can we hold polarities within one plane? There are split offs, only because they exist together side by side. There is no distance or dissociation between them. Both are interdependent. How can I reflect this disparity to you?
She writes these lines in silence. The candle flame flickers shadows on the wall, enlarging her petite figure. Tendrils of hair, loose from the tied ponytail, fall over her forehead and cheeks. They tease her lower lip. She seems unbothered by the distraction. Her fingers hang onto the pen as if for dear life, while her wrist wiggles and sways to the rhythm of her ferocity. Furrows between eyebrows bear shadows around her eyes.
The unreal is real and reality is pretense.
The room is receding into darkness. The last rays of light seep through the woven walls. The air has cooled. When the internal is brighter than the external, her presence is the hearth. Sounds of pen scratching on thin paper, shallow breaths, sniffles, and shifts of sarong on bamboo floor illuminate the tiny hut. Then the pen collapses onto the short round table. She leans back, palms and arms as supports. Her head is thrown back as sweat glistens on her neck, chin and temples. Her chest heaves. She closes her eyes and swallows. With lips dry, she lets out a sigh. It is both joy and pain to write. It is clearly madness. She is certain. But the madness feels alive and liberating.
She starts to giggle, then chuckles. Soon her laughter fills the room. She hugs her knees and rolls on the floor, consumed by humor. Another sigh, a long and loud one, releases. She smiles. She feels light as she lays with legs spread-eagle on her cool, hard, undulating floor. She looks up at the ceiling made of thatch roof. She can almost hear the whispers of the slender palm leaves caressing one another. She moans, as if to say, she likes the sensuality too. She falls asleep to the cooing of the breeze through the cracks in the floor.
In her dreams, they speak the language of hearts, unfettered by temporal, physical and civil distances.