Hide and Seek
I seek you.
I do not know whether I seek you out, but I seek you. Does this make sense? What is the difference then? To seek you out means from amongst a crowd. But there are no crowds between us.
It's just you and me.
This is not a letter. This is a story I think, which would be easier to be told if I do not publish it under my name.
I will tell it pseudonymously. But which name to use? Who am I as tell this story to paper? Should I just begin?
My indecisiveness might give me away.
If I do seek you out (amongst people as we've agreed) then I have sought you randomly. We have found these words between us by chance.
I will begin randomly then. At any letter.
Tea. Trust. Tentative. Table. Tobacco. Today. Tomorrow. Talkies.
I will let you choose a letter and I'll say the words.
Drama. Divine. Dinner. Drink. Don’t. Dance. Dress.
Let’s dance to the detour where this story falls into place – or pieces.
Dressed for dinner – no time for a dance with you. Not even on the stairs as we ascend.
I don't know where I am going with us. I started writing to tell a story, not ramble on. So I could put what I cannot say to you where you will never think to look. And even if you do, will you know?
Change of voice.
She seeks him.
She seeks him out. He seeks her at moments of fear, of loneliness, when her smallness resembles the tiniest thread to keep him from falling.
Or so she thinks.
Seeking is an act of terror. Beautiful terror. Blinding terror. Terror that strings two souls together for an instance and their bodies could not even be there.
She seeks him now. After she heard his fingers trying hard to understand.
She did what he did. She passed understanding and followed the sound of steps, of fingers stroking, and sought him out – even though he was alone.
The game of seeking requires hiding, and despite her size, she could not hide from him.
There was no room under the bed. The suitcase was too small. The rooms opened onto each other. The blinds were see-through. And the cupboard – there wasn't one.
Why hide from the joy of seeking?
She doesn't trust him. She doesn't trust herself.
And she seeks him out.
I seek you out as she does him.
I am afraid of the puncture, of the flow of blood, when they pass through. After needle and thread have passed between us – just a middle passage, no intention of sewing – we will be wounded. We will need to hide. To heal.
Bandages will fall and we hide to seek again.
Again and again and again.
Another letter then, to put an end to this game.
Letter. Leaves. Lost. Little. Lent. Lovers. Liquid. Laban. Louz. Lissa. L'aaw. Lateefa. Leiha.
Shit. This is what happens when you're not decided. I've just decided who I am now and I'm trying to figure out whether Arabic fits in.
Why the hell not? Don't you always say there is always the possibility? Never does not exist – that’s how I translate it. So maybe I could've learned some Arabic, wala eh? I could even go back while editing the story and stuff some Arabic words here and there. See, stuff. Like vine leaves and that oriental crap. Maybe crap is a bit modern for who I am? You never know. You said "never" is inaccurate, but here it's used with a possibility.
To be honest with you, I never thought of me as a possibility for seeking. But the seeking is not sought, right? It just happens?
I just happen.
I do. I happened and now we're staring at the thread going through us not knowing whether to cut it or just wait it out, at this very spot where it all began.
Carlos. Create. Cut. Cairo. Cotton. Come. Care. Comfort. Christ. Cream. Connotation. Carry. Cinema. Constrain. Camera.
I suddenly realized there are no words in Arabic which can begin with a c.
Soles will meet.
I'm so indecisive. Now, I don’t know whether to end this story here or keep it going?
I can’t even think of a proper ending.
Should the thread between them break? Should it tear by itself with time?
Maybe they should decide. After all, it is their story. I am just the messenger, who happens to have an elusive pen name.
I can guess, though.
Each will choose an ending – no. They will both choose the same ending but with a different interpretation. Then they will tug.
And in the tugging. Pulling. Pushing. Longing. Holding. Releasing. The thread will break.
After that…what will happen?
God knows. One story at a time. I'm only just beginning my writing career. Just let me wrap this one up, sign it and go out.
Such an elusive word. Tomorrow comes every day.
28th of November, 1928