What do we call a dream that never seems to end? A love story. But a story has a plot. It has a climax and an anticlimax. And who’s the villain?
I would want to tell my love story. It would defy the art of storytelling. Here’s one reason why: The author would be engaged as one party and the audience would be the other party. Full stop. The other people would be like props. They would be there only to change the setting (background) of the scenes of this love story. After all, it was never about them.
The story would be hard to tell because I would need to master an art: the art of multitasking. It would be imperative that I write as I experience all this. And that would be more difficult than cooking chapati with a sufuria.
I would also need to learn a new language and brand new vocabulary. A language that can help me vocalize what I feel when she tells me that she loves me and her body language doesn’t lie. That new language would need the accuracy of a sewing machine needle to capture my thoughts and feelings when all I want is to hold her hand and not let go. That language would need to perfect on the articulation of that language of love. It would need to be acquainted with what the only flower abloom in my savannah says when she’s not talking; beyond what I can hear.