I met him in May 2017, and he reminded me of cerulean blue, forest fires, and broken harmony wrapped in a cellophane of tragic joy which enveloped him and made his brokenness palpably sweet. He made me forget everyone else, and he made me mine, through a simple interlinking of fingers, through a meeting of the eyes, through a part of him which seemed like foreign bliss, through one encounter when our tongues intertwined like there was no tomorrow, his broken parts aligning with mine in a perfect symphony of dissonant tunes.
He was a fugitive in a land of conformists, an untamed spirit, a wild and wonderful and beautiful soul who was all essence, no packaging - something which reversed the trend of what is common nowadays.
We came undone, stitch by broken stitch, our bodies yielding to our fierce eyes and smiles which left mouths tainted with artistic greed for more, much more. The first time we looked at each other, magic evaporated from our existence and was replaced by curiosity induced iridescent veil of tears. we were hooked onto each other's essence and existence. We were caught up in a whirlpool of declining fetishes and fruity hues.
I remember when I touched him with my eyes, the sturdy wall he had built crumpled inside-out and pricked his existence with a sense of who he was meant to be - a man of such beauty and passion that the broken parts gave way to a holistic sense of wholesomeness. I remember it seemed that his tousled hair caught fire by the wind and his awkward limbs became a mass of conflicting emotions, driving him into a frenzy of delight. The wind made his hair stand on edge and the sunshine sent waves of mysterious force in his battleground-like eyes, that force could not be resisted. Confident and gorgeous, sweet and sublime, broken and whole, genuine and wholesome, enduring and endearing.
The sun caught the waves of resistance in his eyes and reminded me of the time we planned to go to the sea, and swim in the waves, and loosen our grip in the shifting sands of tidal desire. We planned many things. we planned vacations and retreats and rides to exotic locales, we planned morning coffee which would taste just perfect, we planned multi-hued wisdom, and we planned jokes which would range from sublime to mundane. At heart, he had always been a collaborator, standing against the co-option of space and narrative by capital and grand political visionaries. Underpinning all his work is a vision of the commons, describing both the places we inhabit and the stories we are allowed to tell, which are out there in the world, waiting to be shared.