For it is only a coward that hides his face under wet palms in the wake of even the slightest adversity in his life. And it is so that she reminds me of the smell of lavenders, much like she reminds me of the smell of love, of the smell of the sand after a rain, and of the smell of defeat.
How sweet is the taste of being defeated! Of lying on the ground and knowing you cannot get up how hard you might try. The puddles, the water, the soiled roads, you take a step and you fall again, the slippery grounds, the muddy footpaths, the heavy rains. Always it is the heavy rains. They wash away everything in their wake, and drench you so that you are wet from head to toe. I remember those rains, always slanted, so that even my umbrellas would not protect me from it.
I was driving on a road which was being repaired. It was being doubled in width, and for that they have been cutting down trees on both sides of the road. What earlier looked as a small path inside a forest, the trees providing shade to the road from both sides, now looks like a street in a city. Places change as much as people. I cannot connect with that road anymore because it is not what it used to be. It seems as if, along with the trees, a lot of my memories have been cut down as well, deforested, and piled up in a corner, to be carved into furniture or burned as fuel. At least the furniture still has the marks that the tree bore, but being burnt for fuel must hurt. It must. Because I have seen people burning themselves and I know it hurts.
The gardens in my house grow flowers no more. In my absence, they withered without water, and now they are but thin veins of what earlier looked like forearms. The flowers have died absent sunlight, and are now black and hard and crumple like paper. But somewhere at the back of my mind, despite all of this, despite the fact that I won’t be able to see so much anymore, that should I think of it a little more, a part of me would die and never return, much like my garden, for what is a garden but a manifestation of the soul and the materialization of the wishes that one pursues in life, yet sees them fulfilled in the planting of the root, in the growing out of a shoot, of the first bud in the plant, of the smell of the fresh flowers and the bees that hover them and the honey, and the memories attached with them which persist for so long; like the time when I waited ever so patiently for the first rose to bloom to its fullest so that I could give it to her? And yet, for all the roses that I gave her, she still smells of lavender, and enchants me into dreams which best remain unfulfilled, for then I have something to look forward to in my sleep.