I had decided to hang my pen since you kicked the bucket on this field called life, and today, I am prompted to write about you, but then, how could I reduce my feelings into words? How could I write you beautiful lines on a filthy sheet and allow the winds to swim it to your world? How could I write you the bittersweet memories without the quill breaking and the ink getting drained? How could I write a wreath for a wayfarer without the rivers from the eyes making confluence at the chin to mourn your departure?
Dear Abdullah, how could I write you paragraphs when you, the muse, have gone? Albeit the constraints of how, I’ve written you many paragraphs that died in my head, many that found their way out of my brain are hidden in the lines of my book. Many memory of ours are caged in my diary, for most times when I write you these paragraphs, I needed to unbind myself from a lock not seen to the eyes, I needed to free myself from this dark shadow and stay afloat on this pool of grief – of your death, while I fight the dark feelings that keeps weighing me down.
Your death has left me with many parable to live with. The other time in abstraction, I saw you with knife, slitting the veins of your wrist, telling us a million tales to die. Also, the other time before your wayfaring, you were the log on the bed with the river, suspended and coloured, and through the veins, squirted into your bloodstream. The many metaphors of death you told were paradox, until the flat line lined up on the EKG. Then came bleep. And Muffled voice. Then Breathe. But no pulse.
Dear son of magic water, now that you’re gone to reside in abstract, it has always been a long day, the sun no more hides behind the horizon, the dusk no more fights to appear, and the night doesn’t give delight to darkness again, the same way the world is still cruel like the night stealing the day’s light. Nothing apparently has changed, only mother staring at your portrait wilting on the wall like the sunflower does on your tomb, and father eating your name in the monologue with silence.
Dear friend, when they talk of friendship, often times, I don’t know what to say or how to join the conversation. Most times, I find it livid agreeing there’s something they call friendship — it seldom find itself in my dictionary — and I can’t help it…
I entrust the completion of these paragraphs to the winds that carry it to you. But should you meet this paragraphs uncompleted, know that the winds, like myself, are too broken to even write you a dirge.