Dandelions in the Air

My neighbour speaks to himself. He fills the air with figments of his imagination that floats like dandelions in the air. They make a little dance over our boundary walls before continuing their onward journey.

Specks of them visit my window sills. Some of it contaminates the well from which I draw inspiration. Some of them crosses the road to land on the shoulders of the shopkeeper who sells desperation. Some of it merges into the cacophony of our semi-urban landscape. Some of them evaporates to join clouds that carry droughts to far off places and some of it falls flat on the earth to make love with the soil.

The fragrance of his voice fills my kitchen to drive out the whiff of my cooking. It drenches the plants I water. It clanks over our utensils and dries out the clothes in its pegs.

Sometimes his words come in battalions, uniformed in khaki shorts. Sometimes they are identical twins, trotting on each other's back.Sometimes like phantoms and sometimes, like a wailing child in need of reassurance.

Some days, I hear him through the corners of my eyes. Some days, he drums familiar tunes on my ear drums and on some days, he is an odor I cover with bottles and bottles of perfume. And on some days, he is the voice of a silence that beats meaning.