The Season and a Rebel
"You're like a glasshouse. Such a fragile heart you own. Please protect it from this world." These were the words I heard last from him. I think he is the only person so far to call me fragile. Maybe because he thinks he has gone through much more than I did. Maybe he has seen much more cruelty and chaos than I ever did. I remember those words very clearly even after ages simply because nobody ever told me so. Those words amaze me even now, wondering what might have triggered him to speak so. Those were the last words as that's when he announced he would not be available for any other words. Ever. It's weird how technology controls our lives and such decisions. Technology can either keep the door open to many roads or shut all the open doors at once. There is no other in between whatsoever. I feel I have lost a similar thinker to technology. Maybe he is floating somewhere because I can hear those words at times.
He seemed a very lost kind when we first met. We were at a concert of a multiple artists event. An annual event I was fortunate to attend, thanks to my baby brother who managed to get those passes from his then workplace. Actually they were the event organizers. He came to the show with a friend of mine. What intrigued me about him from the very beginning was that lost look of his. He seemed to enjoy the music (although he could hardly understand the lyrics as I was informed at the end), the crowd, the noise. Yet he seemed lost somewhere. Or that's how I could sense then. He didn't say a word beyond 'Hello' when my friend introduced him. The concert ended after nearly three and a half hours. I only received a quiet smile at the end. He was definitely lost, in his own world, maybe in his own beautiful way.
When we eventually started writing to each other, I was amazed at his strong hold on words. He could actually speak nonstop with his written scriptures. We began to share our views on different perspectives through occasionally regular messages: on life, science, politics, philosophy, religion, riots, history, poetry. Those were rather long and chained discussions, a stream of pure consciousness I would say. He was a medical practitioner, something he enjoyed doing and chose for his career just like most of the members of his family. He had seen enough riots, war of politics that torn his region apart for many decades. His photographs (because I met him in person only once) showed there was a rebel in those eyes - a rebel that could use his destructive vibes to create something so beautiful. It sounds quite contradicting I know but that's what it seemed with him all the time. His words always used to throw rays of positive energy. Maybe he had seen more destruction than I ever did.
His imagination used to draw finest words to craft amazing poetry. A nephrologist by profession and a rebel poet by passion. Such a weirdly unique combination. But he was quite well-read and a philosopher at such a young age. And such profound words of wisdom. The best thing about him was his passion and dedication for his profession. He used to work quite late at night, most of the times attending unexpected duties at his hospital. But he never used to complain. I have never seen such dedication for profession at an age of 20 something. He was a loyal son and brother. A responsible friend.
I am thinking of him as Hurricane Helene and Storm Ali are approaching Ireland. He is somewhere out there. We haven't talked for years. But I know he is somewhere out there practicing the same profession with the same old passion. I pray he along with others stay safe and survive it together.
P.S. I wonder if he still crafts magic with his words. I hope to hear from that rebel poet someday.
