Affair With The Reposed

My memory has not always been the best (if my
memory serves me correctly).


The above is my playful response to someones thoughtful reply to
something I wrote, long ago, as I search now for something (I am not
certain yet what.)


I am not speaking to you now. I am speaking to that other person (over
there)... you see. Oh, I guess you can't see from where you are. But that
other person has been reading me for a while now. They sort of started
reading by accident, out of curiosity. But then, as they read, they began
to know not just the words, but me, behind the words. And as they read, I
opened up to them, and they opened up to me. And I showed them more
and more of myself. I exposed myself slowly. I stripped before their very
eyes until I was as naked as the wrestlers in the Palaestra. But then, I
stripped down even more, exposing the atoms of Lucretius. And before
they could catch their breath, or say no and leave the room, I stripped
down to the very waves of Patanjali. But for all my nakedness, they never
came to know the me that I know. They fell in love with the me that they
thought I was, and that me became them, but a them they shall never
show to me. So now, there they are, over there, looking somewhere else
than my direction. And now, I feel slightly cold, being so naked. But that is
ok, because if it werent for being that someone else that they love, I
would never have been anyone at all. And it is the love which matters
really, not the self. Is this not so?


We never think of titles until the end. We never know until its over. So
now I must think of some title, or perhaps, epitaph for the cenotaph:
"Affair with the Reposed."