Holes in the Tin Roof

On the nature of understanding and the loss of language identity

There was, without a doubt, some ethereal experience interlinked with the bus stop that existed just at the edge of the gate of the university. The sunshine pouring in through the holes of the tin shed, turning one’s skin golden upon touch. The slow rusting of the metallic sign signaling time’s decadence, an invitation to sit and listen to the wisdom that existed here. The rain peppering against the roof of the shed, now turning to music with each droplet falling on it, singing intimately about their journey from high up in the sky. All these experiences weaving over each other, now forming a place unbounded from the metaphysics of our realm, if only one were to sit and wait for the world to give way, to uncover the beauty that this stop had become an abode to.

The bus stop constituted a decrepit old tin shed along with a singular bench to sit upon, now rusting from the sides, turning to decay, the senility of the place seeping through it, turning more sacred now with the rusting of each particle, as new holes tore themselves open into the shed. One could sit still here and look out to the forest expanding before them, on the other side of the road, opening themselves to the green foliage taking over every inch of the land. The woods now become a calling for mystique and a life of freedom. I feel some part of myself threaded irreparably with the forest, my fibers tangling imperceptibly with the roots, finding place in the forest floor, where every creation eventually ends up.

Just as I am pulled into the forest, I am pulled back from this illusion by her presence. After all, this stop belonged to the both of us, developing into our sacred spot for meeting each other through the months.

We met each other only when it rained. Only during our attempts at escaping the cascading rain did we let go of our pretenses and insecurities, occupying then a place where we could become honest with ourselves, to whisper to each other all our sordid and spiritual affairs with the world, all our loves and fears, to then melt into each other’s phrases and words. Freed from all expectation to be someone, from all our pretenses about understanding the methodical nature of living.

A place that existed outside the metaphysics of our world, the both of us understood that meeting in any circumstances that weren’t exactly this would be something sinister; we would be distorted by our environments, the atmosphere that we occupied, and would avoid even looking each other in the eyes. We wouldn’t be us if it weren’t for the place that we occupy right this moment.

“Which language would you choose to learn if you could learn any in the world?”

My face flushes seeing you so casually initiate the conversation. You have always been one to avoid speaking first, for fear that you are someone who will always innately be misunderstood, as if some aspect of yours is destined to be rough, that when spoken first, reveals itself and springs its claws to harm whoever you speak to. This fear of yours has always prevented you from forming lasting bonds with people. So, what has changed thus? Has some innate desire taken place inside you? A desire to reach out, arms trembling, and touch that which is unknown to you? Is it something else entirely? Does the desire to belong consume you, too?

If so, let the bus stop become our confession stand. Let me then become your witness, and confide in me your mystic, nonsensical, psychotic ramblings that you think are too unfit to be pronounced to the world. Let me then be created by you. In your phrases and colloquialisms. In the way you write, dressing up your words, trying to find some meaning in your life through yourself, so that you can convince yourself that it is worth living. In the way you see the forest, and the desire to reach out consumes you so wholly that you can’t help but run to it—to find belonging, to find a long-lost escape. Let me then be created by you, in whatever way you want.

“My mother tongue.”

I spare no second thoughts before reaching this answer—I don’t need to. Were the person standing beside me be anyone but you, I would have answered with French or Russian or Latin (for those languages are beautiful also), but I know you bear no judgment towards my incapability. You do not think of me less for this answer. This language has belonged to me since my birth; it is the one that shrinks me so wholly, taunting me on my aversion towards the culture that was given to me but could never become mine. It is the one I could speak and write just fine, but I find myself reduced under its weight.

In English I could define worlds; I seek every beauty that could exist. I create intimate reflections of my life in every word I write. All despondency, all joy that I have goes into creating. I make, I make, I make. I listen to the world; I sit with the weight of every moment. And yet, this language is not mine to own. And the one that does escapes me, now a thorn in my side, poking me incessantly, calling out my inadequacy, forever a reminder of someone I could not be.

You do not flinch at my words. I know you do not think of my answer as being ostentatious or mere incoherent musing. You think you are despised by everyone, so you reserve no judgments towards people, and that in itself makes you sympathetic towards people outcast from normalcy.

Now you take a moment to process what I mean; your eyes refuse to spare any emotion, whether it be understanding or the lack thereof. Your actions do not betray you, for your words are honest when you speak, as if you find no need to hide your feelings in language.

“Why so?”

Your eyes still focused on the heaviness of the rain falling before us, the downpour now filling the silence of our conversation, as you refuse to look away from the scenery before us, saving me from the shame of this realization of my confrontation with myself. For allowing me this space, I am grateful.

“Because it does not belong to me; it was only given to me. However much I put my ink to paper, the words always end up as if they belong to someone else.”

Now your eyes flicker for the first time in this interaction; for a moment, for a second stuck in space, I see your desperation, your mind now no longer still, now rambling to find something—anything—that could make me feel better this instance. But all you have read that belongs to me are the pieces I have written in English. A language both foreign and homely—more so than the one that is mine.

Your kindness consumes me. You understand that my psychotic ramblings about the perils of daily life aren’t something I need consolation on, but the topic of writing is my Achilles’ heel. You seek the right answer here, racing against time to pick out the words. In this stream of thought, you are transported to another world. A place of your creation, where everything exists tied to meaning as you search through it slowly, meticulously.

“I see.”
This is all you could say in reply. I wonder if you think I despise you for giving such a plain and simple answer to my distress. But how can I blame your honesty? I have no right to such a sin. The falling rain bears witness to it.

“Yeah.”

We stay looking out at the scenery before us, the rain now growing heavier, the song now growing louder each passing moment. It will be a while before the bus reaches us, before our meditation here eventually comes to an end. The both of us, in the rain, now stranded here, quietly existing in this place that exists outside with the forest laid bare before us.

(Still from The Garden of Words)