every instant

I love discussing words with you, the subtle power in their nuances. You say you are not a poet, but we both see the same characters in words.

"Will" weighs heavy with determinism. It stares straight ahead, marching on bluntly to a certain conclusion.
"May" is a polite English gentleman asking for permission, a tentative question entreating an answer. 
"Might" is your favourite, a pun, you say. a bright word with strong arms flinging open windows of fresh possibility. 

Tonight you sit on my bed, playing Sufjan Stevens on the guitar. I am static in mid-thought, grasping for the right words to fill a poem. i feel strangely calmed even though you are singing a song about a serial killer. There is a quiet delicateness in the air, framing the moment. I think we might be like this for a while. 

We will. We may. We might.

To me, "might" is also a wish, the sound of the first wind caught in a sail. 
and i think we just might...

I had no time to protest, you snuck it in when I was wiping sleep from the corners of my eyes, gently being tethered to consciousness from the edge of a dream. You forgot your apologies, your nervous preambles, your ironic self-awareness...everything you ever used to tame my cynicism. There it was: three weighty words which produce an incredible lightness when released.

They bobbed heavily through hollow silence. I wanted to surrender. But I still could not grasp them.

I wrote this at the beginning of summer in Singapore, at the end of my euro trip. And as I get ready to board my flight for Cambridge Round 2, I thought I'd post it for nostalgia's sake.

I am slightly upset that the bright banners are no longer there, the ones trumpeting "Welcome to Singapore" in our four official languages. Still when I pass through the gates, the immigration officer offers me a smile. I think of it as something more than the usual grudging stamps on my passport, the endless questions about where I am staying, the purpose of my visit, the validity of my visa. I wait by the baggage carousel, and for the first time I am not thinking about the cheapest way out of the airport or reading a map with street names that sit uneasy on my tongue.

Outside the glass doors, my mother is smiling. Her hair is shorter, her face brighter and younger than I remember it. My Grandmother is forgetting again. She has forgotten where I have come from, that I had even left.

But as I walk out, my lungs ease open to the balmy evening air. Maybe my Grandmother is right, I was always home.

There is a certain stillness about a city, when viewed from above. Rooftops are docile creatures, baring their eaves to the elements' rough embrace. Even the spires shed their imposing air, shrinking back into the trees, diminished in stature.

A castle once stood on this mound. But now, there is not one crumbling brick to testify of its existence. The story goes that the stones of this castle were taken down and used to lay the foundations of the college buildings, 800 years ago. I imagine what it must be like to lose yourself bit by bit, a gentle erosion, until you realise you have slipped from your own grasp. You know well enough that I am obsessed with the idea of memory- the thought of what is it we will remember as significant, with the passing of time.

We arrive at Castle Mound, blanket and picnic bag in hand. We had spent almost an hour in Sainsbury's caught up in absurd domesticities. You laughed at me and my obsession with microwaving everything. Then we picked our way through the shelves, and you gave me an education in picnic foods: olives, proscuitto, roquefort, camembert...I called you pretentious. I insisted on bringing Penelope, your guitar along with us. A picnic, a sunset and a guitar, seemed a fitting conclusion to Summer term.

You warned me that Castle Mound would be crowded tonight- you had overheard talk in your college bar that it was the best vantage point to see the John's fireworks. We find ourselves a spot, our backs resolutely turned away from John's. I feel each note you sing brush across my cheek, before nestling soundlessly in my pocket- as one of those things I think I will carry with me always.

People are scrambling up the slopes, laughing and tossing bottles of wine in the sun's afterglow. Our hands grow cold and so, we leave.

When the fireworks explode, we are cloistered in your room. We are quiet, and we taste the perfect stillness as we hold each other. We do not know that like stones from the castle, things had already begun to loosen themselves.

Listen to the words lovers often abuse: always, forever, trust, truth.

"Because free will, though it makes evil possible, is also the only thing that makes possible any love or goodness or joy worth having. A world of automata- of creatures that worked like machines- would hardly be worth creating. The happiness which God designs for His higher creatures is the happiness of being freely, voluntarily united to Him and to each other in an ecstasy of love and delight compared with which the most rapturous love between a man and a woman on this earth is mere milk and water. And for that they must be free."
- CS Lewis, in one of my favourite sections of Mere Christianity.

To me, it is illuminating when you cut through the thick threads of theology, the high-flown philosophical arguments of God's existence and allow yourself to see His love for us in its startling simplicity. This is why I love Sufjan Stevens' music, because he distills the gospel into quiet plaintive refrains. It helps me to remember that the God we sometimes lose in a cloud of lofty abstracts, was once a Man too.

"I have called you children/I have called you son./What is there to answer?/If I'm the only one?"
"If there's anything to say/If there's anything to do/If there's any other way/I'll do anything for you./...I did everything for you"

Or the way Sufjan retells God's sacrifice and man's response, not with fire and brimstone, jargon or dogma, but with a raw emotional impulse: "To be alone with me, you went up on the tree/ I'd never known a man who loved me"

This draws our attention to a wonderful parallel: that the yearning God has for a relationship and intimacy with His creation, is the same strains of yearning that man himself experiences. This yearning, or what Thoreau melancholically calls a "quiet desperation", is a shadow that man lives his life under. A shadow, which is meant to be lifted by a happiness designed by God for His creation, to be greater than rapturous love. In other words, we are designed to find fulfillment in Him alone.

The realisation of the fullness of God and the fulfillment of man so perfectly unified, is a quiet epiphany that descends upon me. Like discovering a leaf in my pocket in the thick of winter, and being gently moved by memories of home.

It starts out with a pledge: the lover and his heart laid bare for an audience of one. Plastic flowers and vanishing valentines create a carnival of frivolity. You try not to be too quickly enraptured, you are ever the skeptic. Then the turn comes, a quick sleight of hand. You are drawn by the musky scent of mystery. You do not breathe. His silhouette catches you at the edge of danger.

It is the revelation that destroys it. Suddenly everything is too stark, the illusionist, too vulnerable. You wish you could hold him, whisper salves of reassurance, fling yourself back into his thrall... But there is nothing left- the bare boards of the stage no longer comprehend the swirl of stage lights. And you, the audience, know it is time for your bow.

I studied a map of the world on a whim today, and noticed that if we drew a diagonal between your corner of the globe and mine, and if we walked down the line, setting off from our respective homes at the exact same time, (say 7am GMT), we would meet at the very edge of Kazakhstan.

Granted, it might take you a while to cross the Baltic Sea, I expect the water would be freezing even in the height of summer. You will emerge, wet and dripping at the gulf of Riga and make a Transiberian trek through the fringes of Russia. There will be many mountain ranges along the way, but I trust that your hikes with your father through the norwegian wilderness would have prepared you sufficiently for such an arduous journey. You might meet polar bears and other unfriendly creatures, but you can tame them in your Scandinavian way. You should also probably bring a pair of skis.

As for me, I will have to dodge paranoid coast guards and vicious African pirate ships along the straits of Malacca. Knowing me, I'll cheat a little by hitching a train ride up the Malay Peninsula, I was never a fan of walking in the blistering equatorial heat. Thailand and Myanmar will be all leafy jungle canopies and glistening temple roofs, perhaps the occasional glare of a military man's rifle. I am quite excited about the prospect of traversing Bhutan, which I hear is the happiest place in the world. Then Nepal and Kashmir, where clouds skim the face of the earth, as close as a kiss.

I'll leave you to travel through Kazakhstan on your own, I warn you that any Borat impersonations may make you severely unpopular with the locals. I'll meet you at the very edge of it, close to the border of China, in a town called Almaty which means "Apple" in Kazakh. They say this is the place where the very first apple grew.

When we finally meet in the land of apples, we would have walked exactly 10038.66 km between the two of us.

This is just a thought. (But if you want to, I am game.)

As we walk down the river, with David behind us, Mira tells me a secret. "I can't have a life with Michael.. Maybe I don't love him." She says this perhaps a little too surely. "I think I will love a Kazakh man." I am surprised and she surrenders, "I just don't want people to judge me."

She is a Muslim, he is a Christian. She cannot love someone who is not her own colour and still live among her people. In Kazakhstan, girls get married when they are 17 or 18. Mira is 22. Many girls in her university come to school pregnant or with babies on their hips. "My mother says its okay...I can wait. She just wants me to be happy". What would make her happy? "I want to see the world...I want to see everything..."

She asks about scholarships, jobs as an air stewardess, English courses abroad... any road out, that she could possibly take. In the same breath, she tells me she loves her country and she would never want to leave it for long. "Come to my country, and you will understand..."

There is a certain lightness to her dreams. "Maybe I'll travel the world, marry an African man... We can have chocolate babies. I think they are beautiful". Her laughter rings pure, yet it rises as wisps, losing itself to the empty hollows of the night.

We bid our final farewells and begin retracing our steps through moonlit piazzas. I think of Mira, 10 years from now, still rosy-cheeked and beautiful, stirring pots of sweet meats and dumplings, children tugging at her skirts. I hope that by then, her heart would have flown and found its home where it knows for sure, it is free.

More than anything, I wish that love could live with neither plan nor purpose, and was as simple as a touching of hands.

We were lazy in Florence, willingly surrendering ourselves to the sun's heat. Even the buildings had long given themselves over to warmth, their faces, a baked sierra. We found ourselves in markets, in mazes of wallets, shoes and jackets, steeping in the smell of leather.

We spent languid afternoons, coffees in hand, watching people in piazzas. A Chinese lady, in the thick of summer, with scarves draped across her arms, doggedly imploring each passerby to buy them. A dark-skinned boy, brandishing a bouquet of roses, handing out stalks to dining lovers. A Japanese couple, in full wedding garb, stiffly posing against grecian sculptures...

We cover our shoulders as we enter the Duomo. Above us, angels and men are climbing towards heaven, hands and trumpets raised to the King. We begin the ascent ourselves, through winding stairs, until we come face to face with the saints. They loom large above us, each curve soft with brushstrokes, their soulful eyes fixed on the Light.

In the Piazzale Michaelangelo, the city is haloed by the glow of sunset. A copper David, greened by the patina of time, holds court among artists who lovingly sketch the sidewalk with chalk. It is here, as dusk gently dampens the orange hues of the buildings, where we meet Michael and Mira again.

We settle in an alfresco pizza restaurant and Mira is quick to make some observations. In Europe, when people eat, it is always one dish for each person. She grabs an empty plate and playfully growls "this is mine!" . In Asia, there is a feast in the centre of the table, with a spread of meats and vegetables. Everyone digs in and shares. In Germany when people say thank you, they go "Danke Schon!". She mimicks it with a syrupy voice and saccharine smile, before snapping back into a poker face and pretending to walk away quickly. In Kazakhstan, they thank people like this- Mira places her hands on her heart and bows her head, stretching her clasped palms towards us.

They tell us later how they met, in awe of the serendipity of it all. Mira was on her way to dance class, finally succumbing to her mother's nagging to set off earlier. Michael was having his routine drinks with a friend, but he felt ill so he decided to head back to his hotel. Mira hitched a ride into town from a passing driver, "We don't really have taxis in Kazakhstan". Further up the road, having left the bar in a daze, Michael stretched out his hand to flag down a car. "The driver asked me whether I minded going the longer way to drop him off...I had so much time to spare, so I said okay".

"We didn't see each other's faces for the entire journey", Mira said. She was sitting in front with the driver, her face resolutely forward. "But I heard his voice, and I knew he was a foreigner...I asked him what he did." "I said I was a pilot..." "I asked him whether he could get me a job as a stewardess at Air Astana" "I said I would try", Michael smiles. "Even though, I had no idea how I was going to do it. I didn't even work for them...I was just trying to be polite".

When Mira and Michael properly met, it was late at night, after Mira's dance class. She spotted a young white man sitting in the corner of a bar, his eyes furtively scanning the entrance. She was nervous about approaching him at first, so she called him. His phone gave a buzz and he flipped it out of his pocket. "Hello. I'm Mira" "and I'm Michael..."

That night, Michael tried to impress Mira with his halting Russian "I first picked it up from Clockwork Orange", he laughs. Mira told Michael she wanted to see the world. "And now I'm here..." She had never been out of Kazakhstan before, not many people ever leave Kazakhstan. And she never imagined, no one from her country would ever imagine, a few months later, she would be here. For a moment we do not speak, as we take in the weight of her wonderment.

Michael breaks the silence. "So maybe next summer I'll see you?" he touches Mira on the shoulder. She is quiet. He pretends to check his watch. "Maybe a little earlier?" She dips her head, her brow slightly furrowed.

"Don't worry." He says. His voice firm, unwavering.

We arrived in Venice slightly shaken, but the sea is as still as it ever was. The bridges are full of grace, gently lifting themselves from the water's ebbing caress. It is easy to get lost in here. And we wander through the empty opulence of the Doge's palace, the meandering streets and canals, the musty corridors of the Correr museum.

When dusk falls, we are in the bell tower, watching a city in miniature. The bell swings, its clapper clanging heavily against its throat. A beautiful Asian girl with a scarf in her hair laughs and touches a blonde boy's face. Her name is Mira. She is from Kazakhstan. She lowers her voice, a conspirational whisper, "My mother doesn't know I am here seeing him. She thinks I have gone to Munich to learn English for a month." We are quickly recruited as accomplices, posing as friends from her class. Michael waits patiently with the camera as Mira coaxes us into happy poses and cheesy grins. She laughs again, "I can show these pictures to my family".

Two American men swagger up to Michael, obnoxiously whistling. "Where did you find her?", they say nudging him, "We should all go to Kazakstan then!". Michael is firm. "I don't think they like Americans there."

In San Marco's Square, it must be a sacrilege- but we are not quite listening as Bocelli sings. Instead, Mira tells us about her family. "What would your parents say if you wanted to marry someone of a different colour?". We confess that they would probably not mind. In Munich, there are too few Asians, and too many stares when she walks down the street with a white man. "He asked me to marry him". She pulls her headscarf around her face. "But I miss my people".

Michael never stops watching Mira, even as I talk to him about his job. He is a pilot like his father, taking rich men around in private jets. He was in Kazakhstan last year, flying the Kazakh-Moscow route. Three weeks after he met Mira, the company he worked for went bankrupt and he had to leave. "We went on five dates..." Since then, it has been a series of long-distance calls, a flurry of visa papers personally couriered over by friends, little white lies to her parents and bigger ones to the German visa office. He smiles wryly, "Who comes to Germany to learn English?" But he is teaching her. He patiently explains words to her when we speak too quickly. He is quieter when I ask him about the future, "We have one month together and we'll see how it goes from there...This is all we have."

Michael and Mira are dancing next to us. He stands behind her, hands clasped around her waist. He kisses her forehead. They move quietly and she smiles. We look away, to make it perfect.

Rome is a city built on ruins, sediments of civilisations peek through the pavements. We felt them stir beneath us as we walked through dusty streets, roused by the rumbles of traffic. We treaded quietly at nights, through lurching monuments and etched stone walls.

Every visit to this city is a pilgrimage. In churches, we tilt our heads in wonder at gilded crucifixes, swooping canopies of flourishes, dancing light on marble walls. We imagine a sad-eyed artist dabbing a brush to join God and Man, their fingers touching from tip to tip. Suddenly, "chapel" seems too small a word. We stand on top of a castle, where an angel once appeared, sheathing his sword as a sign of grace. The Tiber runs through, sealing the wound.

In piazzas, we revel under stars, cooling our bare feet in fountains. An opera singer's voice soars through the air, and reverberates around us, almost corporeal. "This is magical" a little girl says as she tugs her mother's hand. "When we were up high in the airplane, do you think the colosseum, the pantheon...could see us?" The little girl pirouettes through the cobblestone square, twirling a yellow parasol. Her mother laughs and catches her, her red sari fluttering. The singer's voice holds us all. The Ancients are watching and they breathe.

A heart in love is shaped like a fjord. The waters clear and pulled taut, earnestly reflecting whatever is held up to it with wide-eyed purity. In it you will find heights and depths all at once. It cradles the staggering peaks of mountains, the feather-light tops of trees. It brims full on the brink of beauty, and it flings its arms to draw you in embrace.

Oslo in summer with its skies bearing the very definition of blue, the clouds hovering too close to the ground, like dangling marionettes. Our hurried mornings, half-eaten sandwiches and coffee poured down the sink. Endless trips on buses, directions lost off the top of your head. Afternoons laid themselves before us. We wandered through art museums, contemplating modernist monstrosities, contorting our mouths into screams. We never stopped talking, in parks, on ferries. While crossing roads dangerously, your hand always found mine. The evenings in your basement were quieter, sometimes you would sing. At night, my dreams creaked with viking ships and footsteps in wooden houses. The sun never set.

The morning at the bus stop, stretched out for an eternity. Head to heart. A whisper, a kiss. We thought we could make everything quick and painless. Even farewells.

When the bus went by the fjord later, i think i saw the water shiver.