The Convergence

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What are you dreaming about?

The incessant rain is telling her story tonight. Today it is not a new one. It recounts old anecdotes. One is where I was walking home from school jumping in every puddle, not caring that my books were soaking wet. My excuse for not hiring a transport was that I had no money. Of course only later did Mrs Boss at home reminded me that I could have paid the rickshaw after it had brought me home.

Of course you can't listen to any of this, can you? You're on the same bed as me. You can only feel the moisture in the air and the decrease in the temperature brought about by the fan pushing colder and wetter air down towards you. Your eyes are closed and no sound can disturb you. What you see aids you, and that is exactly what haunts you tonight.

I can feel the twitches on my arm. I can feel the shaking. There is something disturbing you, threatening me that it'll wake you up. And I smile, because it gives me an excuse to wake you up first.

As much as I want to open my eyes and look in the mirror of yours, I realize I don't want to wake you up. You're almost beginning to groan in terror. And it scares me more than it scares you because I'm imagining the worst. But I decide that the best would be to leave you alone. I don't know why I do that, but I do just that.

Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890), Starry Night Over the Rhone, 1888
(Source)
The rain stops eventually. You throw me off as you stop shaking too. It's too humid, maybe, I think to myself. I roll over to my side. I have another story to tell to myself. I lay awake staring at the dull fan.

I close my eyes and try to shut out all the sounds in the hope that it'll give me some inkling of what it's like to be you. But it's futile. Try as hard as I might, I can never not hear. I find myself thinking about that for quite a while before I hear the song. While fiddling with my phone, I had tapped a song on to play. It was still playing.

I get up from the bed and turn down the fan. You're in deep slumber. You don't exist for the night. You're a voice in my head who's giggling as I try to boil pasta. There's something funny about me, you keep saying in my head. I keep making mental notes. Because when you're happy, the not-funny part of my head is oddly calm too.

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