1984 the novel by George Orwell
“she knew charged with a sort of happy melancholy” (page 125)
as i read the word melancholy, it all came back to me, like the beginning of summer, like the posture of him, it’s the sanguine face again,”sanguine face” the nickname i gave to my former crush, he never knew the meaning of it, which delighted me even more than the moment i learned it in.
melancholy is the word he used to describe my short writings, it took no second guessing to approach him, i had all the courage, all the swift, that my friends thought to be so over rated, i think they were too annoyed by that virtue, the approach was for mutual friend to set a day where he delivers a book, it all started with a book, and ended with a book, Monday it was when we first shook hands, we talked for 20 minutes, then he had to leave, it didn’t matter to me who he was on the inside or where he came from, neither did that matter to him, i will never forget the day i sent him one of my short writings, nor will i forget my anticipation for his reply on what he thought of it.
early morning 7:30 maybe, when i read his reply, i was awake preparing for my lab session,’forget the lab coat and the goggles check your inbox’ i said to myself “really good, but too melancholic for me” he replied, see he was an optimistic man, who rendered me pessimistic, he was a med student, an interpreter and an English teacher part time, see the petty future of our country had us on our knees, he was using his skills to the most, a handy man, that made me dwell in the thought of him even more, see i’m not your typical individual, who goes living with idealism while within is lacking, i never put up a list of standards, think of it, if i ever did i wouldn’t have let myself near him.
“he isn’t Libyan, he is Syrian i think” my friend said to me, i looked at him with a dingy smile, “you bloody rot” i so failed to reply, it’s not anybody’s right to denounce anyone of his identity, yet you couldn’t change what anyone thinks nowadays.
our conversations were always short, at the library, noisy full of people, that seemed to fade as soon as he started talking, and oh he was a talker, i mostly just pierced him with my eyes, with occasional side comments.
i had him read many of my writings, which were merely a trap, a path i wrote for him to follow, for more to indoctrinate him with the amount of affection i had for him day by day i taunted myself , “he won’t see, he will never see, he don’t want to see through my words”.
and finally one day he decided to put an end to my state of lassitude, he texted for us to meet, he either was going the enunciate his affection back to me, or decline it, as i went down the stairs of the library, i wished for the best, but it was actually more than i ever dreaded, he started talking while i was still grasping his presence,” so the passed few weeks i felt like you’ve been trying to deliver something with your words and writings, so I’ve been meaning to ask you”, YES, what? ever so triumphantly i replied, ” do you like me?” he asked, i smiled vaguely and he prosaically answered: “yes”, “but i liked you as a friend, and i hope this doesn’t effect us as so” , i never expected that to be the end of my story, at once i felt how painful it is for someone to conceive such an end ” you retard piece of meat, of curse it will effect us so,” i wanted to reply, why do they have to add a lie in between when they can just leave it be “of curse it won’t effect us” that was my real reply, after that, we never exchanged anything but hey and hi.
every time i saw him, i was reminded by the amount of energy that was consumed by him, walking about so benevolent, with his calm features and again his sanguine face, i’ll never really know him, and he will never really know me.