Life goes on. The alarm rings for work, there are co-workers to chat with, projects to build, lunch to savour, drinks with friends, time to explore the vast world or simply the television. There are things to do and people to meet when single. Yet, all of this assimilates into the background like elevator music. White noise they call it. Different frequencies but of equal intensity. A man’s life without a woman is just that – different aspects of life playing out at a muted volume.
People have got it wrong. It’s not about sharing our lives together. It’s about a woman choosing to share her life with you, giving you a part of her soul generously. She describes the smallest of incidents with so much excitement you’d wonder whether she saw a scrawny cat or an elephant. She laughs. And cries more. There is so much of her that she can’t contain it in her small, lithe frame and she gives you a part of her so that you too can experience the highs and lows.
To my woman, I have to be honest with you. You aren’t the special one. It could have been any woman. I wanted a soul full of life to give me a little of her magic. Do you hate me for this, that I didn’t see you as The One? Oh but how much do I long for the life you breathe into me. Stay with me. Don’t leave me.
I don’t want to be one of those men without a woman for whom time has dissolved into nothing. I want some soul too.
I wrote this after reading the short story collection, men without women, by Murakami. If you’ve the chance, read the story of ‘An independent organ’ from the book.