Wednesday, 15 October 2014


Some handshakes stir you up like secret appendages you didn't know you had, that convulse, retract and redirect your energies to a different direction, with a sharper momentum and a clearer vision. Like a worm squirming out of a despondent muddy hole, you move with this momentum guiding your motion and escape the fate that you thought had been set aside by God for you.

The first time I met him, I could tell without much of a time lag that here was a man engulfed by layers of secrecy and walls of steel that wouldn't allow the entry of external forces or curious candidates. This was the first thing about him I noticed, and perhaps that was because this seemed to mirror my status-quo with such a congruent similarity. We sat on opposite sides of a wooden bench, coffee mugs separating us and our minds, both on guard with a very German precision, as if we were both scared of any form of mental penetration or emotional confluence.

However, our attempts were quite futile and our efforts at remaining heartless were thrown on a cold hard floor and stomped upon by a higher power that had carved a very different path for us.
Some people are meant to be prologues to a story that shall eventually become the one that you are remembered for even after you're dead and gone. That evening, when we shook hands, I'm certain I didn't know that I had just met my prologue. The stirring that I felt in my thorax was probably due to those eyes or those shoulders, I told myself. But no, I had just been pulled out of the sea and thrown onto the sandy beach of the island we would grow to call our home.
My story had finally begun.

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