16 August, 2019

When I wake up to the sound of the alarm, only a single thought strikes my mind.

From the day after tomorrow, July won't be in my life anymore.

The thought is so crushing that I lose all my strength of getting up, and just lie there on the bed for a long time like a lifeless rag doll. When I turn behind me, I see July leaning against the headboard, his head hanging to the side, fast asleep.

I slowly sit up, tap his cheek in a light way, and call, "July. Hey."

"Hmm?" He frowns but doesn't open his eyes.

"Lie down. Come."

Now he opens them only a little, and I help him move to the pillow and lie down comfortably. I pull the blanket away from him. Within a few seconds, he slips back into slumber.

I wrap the blanket around myself and watch him. I see him occassionally moving his mouth in his sleep, as if he's chewing on something. His lashes flutter once in a while. Is he seeing a dream? What if he's seeing Dawn again?

I shake the thought away. I'm sure that the connection between him and Dawn, as well as Dawn and I, both ended with the fulfillment of the wish. Now, nothing else remains but July.

So I watch him. I watch and watch, until rays of sunlight begin to pour into the room, embroidered by the shades of leaves outside the window. It's a privilege to watch someone you love sleep in peace, something I learned with Dawn. I wonder rif Dawn, too, chose sleep as the reward for fulfilling the wish of brother Aster's past boyfriend.

A long time passes before July finally moves a little. He groans as he changes position and stretches his arms. Then he blinks his eyes open, and his gaze lands on me.

He frowns, then lets out a gasp. "Were you masturbating while watching me?"

I sigh, not even surprised. "That's the first thing you choose to say after waking up in the morning?"

Laughter bubbles in his lips. He props himself up to a sitting position. "That's how I am, sweetheart."

I smile and look down. "That's how you are."

"Hmm? Why do you sound so sad?"

"It's nothing." I unwrap the blanket. "Let's go down. The diner's probably open by now."

"Will Autumn be there today too?"

"Why, are you jealous?"

"No, I just want to sit alone with you."

I squint at him.

"Okay maybe a liiiittle bit." He shows the amount with his thumb and forefinger, which are almost touching.

"That's so illogical, July."

He smiles. "I know right? I lose all my logic when I am with you."

                      ---------------------

July points at the word “Sex” and says, "They included this as well." He giggles.

I roll my eyes. Of course he will notice that first, out of the thousands.

Taking a few steps back, I move my eyes all over the massive mural, a rush of utter fascination rising within me.

Right now, we have come to the next and final destination of our trip to Greenwoods: The Mural Of Reasons To Live.

We took a local bus to this place right after breakfast. It was only two hours away. Considered one of the greatest artistic attractions of this country, this mural was painted against the back wall of what used to be a boarding school, but is now a book cafe. The height of the wall is only nine feet, but the width is much longer, covering a large area.

The history behind the mural is an interesting one. It was painted by a group of friends who studied in this very school, batch 1967, as a tribute to a classmate who lost her life to suicide. However, paying a tribute wasn't the only purpose behind making the mural; it was also a middle finger thrown at the school authorities, as it was considered an act of vandalism to the school property. The girl who died was a victim of severe bullying. The school authorities never did anything to help her out, and instead, kept getting her into more trouble by contacting her parents, who weren't the most supportive people out there.

The friends painted this entire mural on the night before their graduation, taking only 4 hours. At that time, the wall only consisted of texts written in haphazard grafitti. The reasons they wrote down here were collected from interviews of all the students studying in that school, along with some of their own contributions. On the day of graduation, when there was an attempt to throw white paint all over the mural to destroy it, every single student present protested vehemently, and they were forced to leave it be. Our ancestors were no less rebellious than us, that's for sure.

And that's what brings us here at present, standing in front of a piece of art that will stay relevant for perhaps as long as humanity exists.

A total of two thousand fifty six reasons have been written all over the wall—as I discovered during my research from the internet—using paints of a myriad different colours and shades as well as exquisite calligraphy. In between the texts there are little illustrations here and there, of little humans engaged in various activities. Someone is reading a book. Someone is listening to music. Someone is walking their dog, while smeone hugs their cat to sleep. Smeone else is watering their plants, and someone is taking a swim in a green lake. Here is one person is getting drenched in the rain, and there is another one drinking coffee by the window. And on and on.

As I read through the words, as in, the reasons, I realize that most of these reasons are very simple, present all around us, filling our everyday lives. They're written in plural, as a reminder that an abundance of them exists, waiting to be seen and to be experienced as one of the joys of life. And all those reasons make sense.

Birds. Rain. Snow. Lanterns. Fireworks. Tea. Coffee. Sleep. Butterflies. Red leaves. Cherry blossoms. Chocolates. Ice-cream. Trains. Boats. Fairy lights. Lampposts. Stars. Airplanes. Cinema halls. Night skies. Waterfalls. Sunsets. White clouds. Books. Music. Movies. Sunsets. Ferris wheels. Murals. Kittens. Puppies. Penguins. Homemade foods. Hugs. Kisses. Long drives. Riverside walks. Poems. Waterfalls. Tubbed plants. Encounters.

These are just some of the many. It's like anyone who feels directionless in their lives and think that they have no reason to continue any longer, might come to this mural out of a final spark of hope, finding something to take away from it for certain.

"This really shows that you don't have to look for reasons to live," July says as he reads through the words, a small smile on his face. "The reasons are right there. It's just that we humans fail to see them."

"Or we see them but never consider them to be enough, always wanting more," I add.

"True."

I find it fascinating how so many small yet meaningful reasons to bear the burden of life exists around us. No matter how hard it is, they are all within our reach. We are drowning in a pool of beauty and joy, but we still try to swim to the surface, to the unreachable sky, giving away our entire lives behind this pointless ordeal.

Aren't I the same too?

Or should I say—was't I the same too at some point?

After Dawn passed away, I remember feeling like my body does not belong to me, as if someone has pulled me out of my material self, and I watched that humanoid empty vessel from a third person's perspective. I remember feeling so insane and suffocated by this restlessness, this turmoil, that there came various instants where I tried to hurt myself purely for distractions. And there were also times when a thought would poke my mind, knocking repeatedly, telling me only one thing: Maybe it will be better if all ends.

And yet, I somehow managed to hold on, more because of Dawn than for myself.

I'm certain that my desire to live has never been absolutely non-existent. And it was that tiny ghost flame that brought me to this point of time, a point where I have become strong enough to share my strength with others, become brave enough to be more true to myself, and learned how to accept love and provide the same.

I take a deep breath, my heart swelling with a surge of pride towards Cedar Lockwood, towards me. Just like Dawn said in the dream, I have come so far. I truly have.

Maybe after July leaves, I might be pushed back to the starting point of the Ludo board, and have to rebuild myself piece by piece while I bask in my grief. But if I managed to do it once, then why won't I be able to do it again?

I take some photos of the mural to show to Edgar later. There are many people around here, most of them taking photos with the mural. A few are sitting down on the ground and reading the reasons one by one. July and I take our time to do the same. He comments once in a while, but I can't respond to them in public. 

At one point he says, "You know what I think?"

I turn my head sideways, finding his gaze fixed on the wall.

He looks at me then. "That the world isn't inherently bad or inherently good. It all, in the end, comes down to how we choose to perceive it. Someone looks at the sudden morning rainfall and gets pissed because he has to walk on the mud, while someone else looks at the same morning rainfall and outstretch their arm through the window. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I nod slowly.

"I think I'd told you this before too. The world changes depending on how you look at it."

I don't say anything. This is a matter where my opinion differs from his a little.

"I know what you're thinking," he says.

"You do?"

"There was a time when I, too, saw our relationship, or just the whole premise of it, as something extremely cruel. I felt like God was mocking me by bringing me to you. But if I held on to that sentiment, we would've have never come this far. I would look at you as a punishment of mine, and your image would grow distorted in my eyes."

I place my chin between my knees. What about what about after he leaves? Am I also supposed to see his departure from my life as something good, something beautiful? Maybe it is, because his soul will rest in peace. But down here, I will continue to suffer.

I don't tell him this. Because I will never admit, that a carefully hidden part inside me finds the idea of my memories of him being erased almost a blessing.

-------------------------

"I don't think this is going to come out very good," July says, tapping the sketchbook with the edge of the pencil. "It's hard to understand the shapes and proportions from the eyes, since it's convex."

"It will be fine," I encourage.

Right now, July and I are sitting in a rather awkward position on the bed. We are facing each other, our legs crossed, eyes on the same level. He has his sketchbook on his lap. He is drawing himself, just like I asked him to.

I wanted to read Dawn's next notes, I could barely focus. Because every minute or so, July would absent-mindedly lift my chin, lean closer to get a glimpse of himself reflected in my iris, and go back to his work as if he didn't just increase my blood pressure.

But it feels good. I don't know why, but it does. A profound intimacy envelopes this serene moment—the two of us at a nameless motel in the middle of nowhere, one with a beating heart and the the other without the same, sitting on the creaky bed face to face, while he draws himself through the reflection of his image on my eyes.

For a moment, I keep my gaze transfixed on him, trying to catch little details, carving them into my mind with thick, black ink. His brows are slightly furrowed, the tip of his tongue poking out from the side of his mouth. He purses his lips and pouts before erasing something that didn't turn out the way he wants. He nibbles on the corner of his nail while trying to figure out the right proprotions. His bangs fall over his face, and he absentmindedly pushes them away with the end of the pencil.

I watch him, and paint my skin with his ubiquitous presence, enraptured by the sight. When his eyes dig into mine, to see himself as I see him, I hold my breath and bite my lip, savouring this unique connection of ours. And when he pulls away, oblivious, I find myself wishing he would come back closer, for now and forever.

But that isn't possible.

July sits straight with a groan, then holds up the page beside his face. "Do you think the shape is fine?"

"Hmm . . ." I look back and forth between him and the sketch. "Maybe you should make the jaw a little bit- how to say this- like make it a little thinner? Narrower?"

"Ooh, really? Okay wait." He again looks into my eyes, smiles, and goes back to drawing.

"What are you smiling about?"

He shakes his head. "Just that, your eyes are pretty."

"You noticed it for the first time?"

Nodding, he replies, "If we had more time, I'm sure I would have noticed many more things about you."

That's true. But it's impossible. I think I've already come in terms with the impossibility of it all, so now the pain isn't as sharp as being stabbed. Rather, it's a bit like spraining my ankle. The pain falls asleep after a while, only to wake up again when I put a step forward. Maybe this is how it's going to be for the rest of my life.

"I think you've seen almost everything already," I say.

"Almost," he replies without looking up.

"What more do you want to see?"

He lifts his gaze to mine, and I see in it an unlikely mix of anticipation and hesitation. Our eyes remain locked for so long, that I feel as though I have become frozen in time, and whatever wordless conversations we are having right now, will last forever.

But the truth is: behind our backs, time continues to steal one soul after the other, in its own, unhurried pace, unheeding of our cries of sorrow.

In the end, he doesn't reply to the question, but I become hyper-aware of his most minute movements. I see the moles on his neck, spread like constellations. His collarbone peeking from behind the shirt's unbuttoned collar. The shirt is mine, and seeing him in it makes me feel a rush of something foreign, something I always imagined would be out of my reach.

He resumes his sketch without another word. It's still there. I can see it. That crimson red line separating us. It's always there. How I wish we could erase it, if only a little bit more.

I keep my eyes on him for a while longer. Then I tell him I'm going to take a bath and head off to the bathroom.

The bathroom of our motel room is small, but only slightly smaller compared to the room itself. It's not the best smelling bathroom out there either, but I have got no choice but to deal with it. I turn on the faucet over the bathtub, then come back out to get my clothes.

As I'm pulling out my towel and shirt from my bag, I glance at him and find him engrossed in the sketch.

"I'm going to take a bath," I repeat.

He glances at me. I head to the bathroom.

Taking off all my clothes, I step into the tub. It is slowly filling up with cold water. After closing the white curtain, I sit down hugging my knees. And then I wait.

I think of those people from that comic book. How much did they manage to love each other within those three days? Certainly not enough. But at least they tried. In that sense, they're winners.

I hug myself and close my eyes, picturing every naked inch of my own skin, longing for what I can never have. Then I picture that skin falling off in defeat only to reveal more skin underneath—it's not over yet, a metamorphic transformation is occurring in my being as we speak. I'm letting go. I'm letting go of a part of myself that I can never have again. I'm letting go of what I always had but never acknowledged.

The chill from the porcelain bathtub seeps into my skin. The coldness reminds me of love, and it reminds me of death. It reminds me of how time will keep dragging on and on, and my end will come one day too. And perhaps I'll see the ones I love again, and love them again, once more, just like before.

And hence, the clock of my mind keeps ticking, and I listen to its periodic rhythm, waiting for the bell to inevitably ring. I recall a game show Dawn and I used to watch on TV as kids, where people would play certain games to win a large sum of money. There, the man hosting the show would say a sentence at the end of every round: Time's up, put down your lives, bow down, no second chances!

Dawn and I would sometimes quote that line to each other and laugh. But now I see how that one sentence rings so true.

I wish I wasn't so aware of these. Maybe then, I could have been much more braver. What a war we are fighting here, with so much desperation, since the beginning of our beings, despite knowing there is no chance for us to win. There's no chance for us to outsmart time, no chance to escape its scrutinizing eyes. And yet we try, with the hopes that even if we don't win, we can at least say that we put up a worthy fight.

The curtain is slid open.

I look up. There he is, standing in front of me, clutching the buttons of his shirt.

"Can I join?" he asks.

And I realize: what I feel isn't lust, but a desire to be held so close that our souls may mould into one another, unable to be separated despite the gap of a heartbeat between life and death.

Time's up, put down your lives, bow down, no second chances.

I pull the drain plug to empty the tub.