MATCHPOINT (A Tale of Language Games)
Have you ever met this person?
This guy who stares at you when you’re looking the other way.
With him, you could use words that you thought could only exist in old literary works of authors long gone. Your vocabulary will never go to waste because you know he knows exactly what you’re talking about. So you decide never to filter, as you float in polysyllabic bliss.
You’d have long conversations, and you’d realize despondency is a thing of the past. You don’t have to be gloomy… you don’t have to drown in misery just to impress him. And just when you are about to impress him more, it’s too late, he’s way ahead of the game.
You’d mock him, out of sheer endearment, and he’d laugh immediately, and you didn’t even have to say “I was just being funny.”
He’s your match in every way, and he’d make sure to point that out.
Have you met this person who’d tell you how much he knows you? And he would do it in the most trivial and mundane manner, and you’d know.
You’d cunningly say something vague, afraid of telling the truth. Your words would have meanings more than you care to admit, but he’d get it. He’d indulge your ambiguity, and he’d deliberately respond to all possible interpretations, and you’d have this long seemingly simultaneous forking correspondence. Both of you would revel, immersed in the exquisite confusion.
When you spend time together, you’d talk fast, you couldn’t stop the verbal diarrhea. Your mind would race… flights of ideas competing to be muttered under breath. You would exhaust yourself in panic… knowing you couldn’t freeze the moment, nor trap yourself in that split-second before you’d realize one of you has already turned his back about to walk the opposite direction.
He’d do something out of the ordinary, and you’d both act as if it’s nothing special. Still, you’d end up on the floor, walking on all fours, searching for something. He’d ask what you’re doing, and you’d say, “Nothing. It jumped off of my chest just now.” He’d start laughing again, and then he’d raise his right hand, he’d say, “Oh, this old thing?” Aparrently, he has his fingers wrapped around it the whole time. And you’d find yourself stuck, deciding if you still want to take it back.
In spite of ridiculously long emotional sommersaults, there are moments you would stop breathing, afraid that any small gesture would cause him to disappear.
Have you ever met this person?
If you have, tell him to call me.
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