reading you is like reading italo calvino’s if on a winter’s night a traveler. i start reading you at the train station downtown. you start talking about yourself. i listen and without realizing it you are now talking about me. you talk about my relationship with you as the text and your relationship with me as the reader as well as your relationship with all the other readers who get hold of you. without realizing it, you seem to fancy talking about subjectivity and the dynamic layers of meanings that envelopes me and my thoughts.
like reading italo calvino’s if on a winter’s night a traveler, you bore me. sometimes.
it is your bipolar nature of incessant talking and your laconic, soporific narratives that bores and excites me at the same time. like the novel, you are irony at its best. you are complex yet simple.
you draw me to the towering heights of the climax of each of your chapters only to be pushed down a void. like the chapters of the novel, you like to push me hard to the verge of orgasm. you like to entice, to draw, to mesmerize, but you escape into a formless void split seconds before the actual salvo of climax happens to start another chapter, more captivating, more enticing, and more mesmerizing than the last. you keep doing the same thing, building up the climax and then leaving everything else hanging in a vacuum of nothingness in order for you to jump into the next chapter. you are an elusive being that i like to chase. for each chapter you start opens avenues of experiences. each chapter you bring opens truths of the universe- truths about myself, truths about my life, truths about my relationship with you.
“something must always remain that eludes us…for power to have an object on which to be exercised, a space in which to stretch out its arms…as long as i know there exists in the world someone who does tricks only for the love of the trick, as long as i know there is a woman who loves reading for reading’s sake, i can convince myself that the world continues…and every evening i, too abandon myself to reading, like that distant unknown woman…”
like the novel, you are screaming life from your pages. you lull me to sleep, you awaken my senses, you fuel my curiosities, you arouse my senses. i love you.
you are a great companion during my subway journeys. thank you.
thank you for being that novel with novels filled with layers of meanings. you keep the clockwork of my mind at work. i may get lost and tangled in the labyrinth of your world, but whenever i get out, i emerge as a new person, victorious and rich from experiences in all levels and aspects. reading you has always been a pleasurable experience.
italicized text lifted form italo calvino's if on a winter's night a traveler