I remember your room full of suitcases,
and – what the heck else?
One of 7 rooms.
Was your mum’s spirit in there?
I remember they were made of leather, not plastic, and one of them said 1956?
I remember the photos from Cambridge.
How did you get through there as a Muslim.
I could see in your eyes that you’d never left. You were wearing a Russian fur hat when it was warm, in England. I think I was probably wearing a T-shirt.
Why the heck did we meet?
Are you even alive? I somehow bet you are.
How could I even meet people, probably the wrong people, through that thick tangle of barbed wire my field of vision was wrapped up in?
Why do I think of you when I think of suitcases?
What was your ‘real name’ again even? I was still going by my real name then.
Probably meaningless moments for you, but heck I was young and had never met a brilliant and completely mad crackpot like you. Yet had to. Develop my own brand of it.
You certainly looked brilliant in that afro wig and golden glitter dress.
We disagreed about philosophy. I still think you’re wrong.
I suppose my genius lies in visions, trumps logic.
How could I ever pull off something that weird, strange, upside down?
Would we have been friends if I hadn’t walked in standing on my head, the inverted fool in tarot?
On top of it, you even got my gender right of your own accord. I’m sorry I turned you gay for a day. I do feel you can easily deal with it, though. You are secretly the same type of mind.
Funny, years later I lived in my own crazy attic. I didn’t scribble the walls with quotes from Heisenberg, but I painted a huge mandala.
Probably won’t buy a house with 7 rooms like you, not sure why, perhaps leaving India was easier than leaving Poland (guess they burnt your house and didn’t let you go back). I was blessed with inconsistency and laziness, and my moderate love of the sciences made room for profound love of immanence and a Kierkegaardian crisis.
It hurts we all age and die.
Though being made aware in a meadow full of crickets that you’ve gone deaf without realising is probably worse than dying.