In the morning, the sun rises. At night, the sky gets dark. I haven’t felt the warmth of the glowing sun on my face nor have I witnessed the sun dip low across the horizon before the cloak of darkness falls for a long time. I still write about them. There are plenty of videos online to tell me about the life I’ve missed out. I can search, Dubai sunrise and sit with a traveling couple as they witness the beginning of a hot day. People have hailed me as one of the most notable writers because of how I utilize words. Words aren’t stagnant. They constantly flow all over the page and paint the colors. Little did they know, I’ve never touched the course beach sand fading into the fine and fragile ocean sand. I’ve never heard gazed upon buildings that seemed to tickle the sky. When letters flooded my door with encouragements to feel their corner of the world, I lied. Isn’t it easier to lie than to confront? I wrote back and told them that I was planning on taking a trip to their corner once I’m certain that my words will strike everyone’s heart. They kindly wrote back in looping letters, letters that didn’t flow, telling me places to eat, places to admire and places they once occupied. Their brochures, maps and directions give me a better picture of the world and I write and write and write more.
I used to have a friend with me. We used to dream of days where our bodies would never be in the same place. We dreamt of wonders that we needed to lay our eyes upon, but little did I know that one day there would be a space where he was. He struck my heart with his flowing words as he said, “Why do you call yourself a writer when you will always be a liar?” And with a slam, he disappeared into the night. From then on, I vowed to myself that I would preserve his space and protect my space by dreaming of what once was, what never would be and dreaming of irregularity.