Beside the red lamp post

“I’ll see you later beside the lamp post where we always used to meet. I’ll wear blue, your favorite color.”

“Just be there on time. I’m going to a friend’s party after you’re furnished telling me this thing that you’ve been wanting to tell me since the last time we met beside that lamppost.”

“I will, I’ve already got enough courage to…”

“Okay, okay, just be sure you keep it short. Bye.”

“…to say it.”

We accidentally met beside that lamp post three years ago. It was raining that day. I just finished with my work in the library when I saw her all wet and shivering standing beside the lamp post. Although I see the red lamp post everyday I go to work, that day it seemed that the crumbling red paint became the brightest red I’ve seen in my entire life. The light was turned on, prematurely, because of the dark sky. The dim yellow light, for me then, was almost enough to illumine the entire of my world.  What used to be a boring, ordinary-looking lamp post suddenly became the most beautiful object in my sight.

All of a sudden, my whole world warped into a ball that surrounded the lamp post. It became a miniscule planet revolving around a star. I felt within me that from that day on I knew that the lamp post and I are one.

I approached her beside the lamp post. I was shivering more because of the unknown emotion inside me than the cool wind and the heavy rain.

“It’s odd.”

“Do I know you?”

“I bet no, but you seemed not bothered by the rain and the wind.”

“Is that your stratagem for asking a woman’s number?”

“Not at all.”

“Then you’re getting in the way of my meditation.”

“Are you serious? Meditation. I’ve never seen you here before.”

The time I heard her speak I knew that the lamp post, me, and she became inter-connected by a universal force that almost too complicated for a librarian like me to explain. All of a sudden Foucault’s pendulum crushed Nietzsche’s Leviathan that caused my anomie as expounded by Emile Durkheim become less difficult to bear. I was happy.

“Can I accompany you home?”

After that first meeting, the second, third, fourth, and all other succeeding meetings we had were all beside the lamp post. Everything was so fast, so harrowing that three years have passed without me knowing her name and she asking for the identity behind my sullen look.

Only the lamppost knew what was inside our hearts.

“And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you,” said Nietzsche once.

For three years, the lamppost witnessed the love I gave to her which she willingly returned with all affection a female human being can muster. She was my life.

“Now what is it that you want to tell me?”

“I thought you will not come”

“I’m here already.”

“I miss you.”

“I’ve heard that before. Well, yeah, I also miss you.”

“I’m thinking if you can stay longer.”

“I cannot.”

“Then can I hold you, for a while.”

I held her hands, softly at first then the red paint of the lamp post looked laughing at me. I tightened my grip.

“I have to go.”

She was my life. I loved her, and the lamp post. Together they gave reason for my existence.

I banged her head onto the lamp post. It felt so light, in fact, feathery to the touch. The lamp post smiled at me. The chipping red paint became bright again, as bright as the day I first saw her beside that lamp post. Blood gave the lamp post its needed repainting.

I loved her, only beside the lamp post.

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