I continue to open the archive of memory, so that a picture appears. A picture of a woman. Ripe, fine and delicate in her early twenties. She's so delicate such that when she walks, all the creatures stop and stare. So fine, such that the birds sing for her. When she walks on a sunny day, the sun respects her, so that it becomes gentle on her skin. so that its rays are but a gentle massage, the kind that heals. Surely, she's a woman created with purpose; with a blueprint, with the delicate of materials. She's not the haphazardly baked pot. No! She's the kind that takes a fine potter's time. The kind that attracts meditation, before she can be molded. A fine woman indeed.
I open another file, so that I see myself taking a stroll down the street. Then I meet her again. She's finer. I cannot stop to think that fate has got something upon its sleeve, for every time I take a stroll, we meet with this fine creature. Then we lock eyes. You can say that it is a wonderful experience. The kind that makes you curve your lips, producing that suggestive smile, then walk away knowing that you've stirred up something in another soul, or rather, you hope that you've stirred up something.
All I can do is to open up files, discarding the unimportant ones.As I flip the pages of the files, time flies. Yet the delicate woman does not speak a word. There are times I see myself approaching her, but then I dread the move. I want to buy time, to create a good impression, without realizing it is folly.
Finally, am done with the files. I close the archive and dive back into reality. At first, everything is blurred, but with time, every object has well marked outlines. I bet that memories can have a certain effect on someone such that even when he is wide a wake, He still thinks he is dreaming. As am writing this story, the ripe, fine and delicate woman is by my side. My right hand you can say, but I have to confess something. I have realised that I was stupid. To compare her with the gods. Am ashamed of myself, for having worshiped her, for having knelt down before her, for all I can see her now is just a human being. JUST human. She might still baffle me from time to time. She might awaken those intimate feelings within me, but she is still human. That is what she is. Human.
I had spend a considerable amount of my time thinking about love and happiness. I have always found myself dreaming about women, making them the centre of my world, so that when they are removed from my life, everything else falls apart. But I have realized that love is always sweet and great when you fantasize, when you sleep and dream of it. I have come to realize that a woman is only beautiful if she's at a distance. She's beautiful when she is silent. She is sweet when she avoids you. She's beautiful when she rejects you. How I wish I never talked to her, that I had kept my distance. She would still be ripe, fine and delicate if I had done so.
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