In abandon, we face our biggest fears. The moment your voice ceases to ring in my ears, I feel abandon. I feel the ordinary creep upon me. Have I ever told you that is my biggest fear?

The other day I took a walk when the winds were blowing in the opposite direction, with a certain amount of stubborness too, I must add. I live in a neighbourhood where either the walls cry out or stand solitary without windows. There are no inbetweens here. There is no moderate, no intermediate, no lines, no ballets and pirouettes on a non-judgemental axis. But within these walls, they commit the most atrocious crimes. I can see them.

I walked past windows the other day when the wind was blowing in the opposite direction. Those windows were like strips of skin peeled away; the insides were simply left to rot. I could see a wife watching a soap and a husband falling asleep on his chair. I could see a child watching them and learning that life might end up being like that. I could see her abandon creeping upon her.

Another wall, the lights focused on its texture. Was that deliberate, I wondered. If you cannot see what's on the inside, you might as well feel what my skin is like. You might as well understand its texture. Lights and a white wall. He thought he was hiding. I could see abandon loom large over that house.

Another window, what did the flesh hold now? Did ordinariness eat away into their lives too? How do you make love without shivering at the sensation of an alien skin upon yours? How do you let new life grapple into you without understanding the course of familiarity that follows? I
shudder to think that is exactly where we are all headed. A world of abandon. Let it all go. What's your loss? What's your gain?

Peace might disappear in a few years now. The term could be extinct; we might spend generations trying to find the fossils. This world could be warred and bruised, the circumference of this planet could bleed and drip into space. Starvation could become a way of life, money could be a museum artefact. We could have two suns in our horizon and heat waves could drastically reduce booming population in days. And what could be the biggest regret we might have in the middle of all this?

Ordinariness.

I see through those windows and I see ordinariness. I see love buried deep under blankets and filth of an ordinary life. I see people force themselves into abandon. I feel wasted when an hour passes without feeling you in arms; the aftertaste cannot even get close to how you transform everything I recognize and acknowledge. I wish I could teach you to the world.

The extraordinary is nothing more than an undiscovered organism. It creeps beneath these walls, it hides just before you decide not to buy those flowers, it lives within knowing that you want to and not knowing how to. Ordinariness is my biggest fear.

There will be no abandon in this house. The wood sweats salt during the day and you ooze from my thoughts in the night. You bind me tight into this knot of the extraordinary.

You are my extraordinary.

These senses fail me. I don’t understand how. How can your senses fail you? Am I supposed to be dead then? Dead and buried, numb and breathless six feet under.

Am I buried under your weight of love?

But love is just a fist now. A fist closed and angry. A fist in denial and pain. A fist full of love wanting to run into a wall. A fist that wants to break the wall and watch its identity crumble into pieces. A fist that wants to embalm you in the love that makes it so heavy.

My senses fail me. Yet, isn’t it strange that I rely on my senses to ground me when I float to you? Did I just drink tea? How would I know? The aftertaste. It’s not you. It’s the tea, syrupy and bland.

Touch; tingles across my spine take morning walks. Tingles run along in pairs as the ground perspires and heaves at the warmth of your breath. Touch; your breath makes my skin fertile. The sun burns upon it to create life. Solar flares erupt in the distance and you let them pass through you, magnificent and untamed. You are the Northern Lights that rip through a dull gloomy sky. My senses fail me. You bring me back.

The smell of musk, the smell of a new you every waking hour. Your voice trembling and quivering, stretching across blankets and slithering by straight lines. Vapours of you and me coliding and dancing in the air, slipping through our noses and bursting out of our mouths in bouts of sighs. I can smell inevitability.

Sight; how many eyes do I have now? You glanced through and a thousand more uncurled over me. A thousand more and I could see the tragic ugliness of this world. A thousand more and I began to love it, all the tragedy, and the beauty that makes it inhabitable. How many more will you uncurl? How much more?

I can't hear anymore. My world is nothing more than a rhythm. I swim and surf through this rhythm, I know every curve, every wound, every single place where potholes are healing. I know when to jump over them. I know when to trip into them. I know you want me deaf. Truth is mute and I am deaf.

One day, one very fine day, all this won't matter. This invasion of my senses would be complete. This transition will be insignificant, and you will become the southern sun in its blinding glory. These senses would have failed me completely. And you, you will be all that remains.