Even when I am with you, I feel a thirst for you. Why is that?
I finally figured that one out. Do you want to hear?
Suppose you have a guest at your door. The guest wants to come in, and you really do want them to come in. But then you realise, that your house is too full. There is no place for them to sit. Every sofa is occupied by another memory. Every chair has a ghost sitting on it. Some chairs have people who you want there. They cannot be evicted. Even the bed is taken by the bonds of the present and the hopes of the future.
The guest is right there. But you cannot experience them inside your house. Because there is no space for them. They cannot even enter your zone.
And that is how, right at your doorstep, standing in front of them, you feel a thirst for them. That is how, standing at your doorstep, they have to turn and walk away. There was no place for them in there.
They wonder about the invitation. They wonder why they were invited if there was no place. You want to tell them that you always found this house empty and devoid of meaning. They look at you and smile. There is nothing more to be said. Or done. They will wait for as long as their legs allow them to stand in front of a door. Then they will sit down and wait. Then they will wait some more. But finally, they need to turn back and go home. They know the futility of the waiting. But it is a ritual that needs to be completed. Don't worry about the waiting. Its just a rite of passage. It will pass.
And the thirst?
That will vanish the minute you realise that the house is too full for another person.
You have all the answers, don't you?
Not me. The lines under my eyes. They are the all knowing ones.