I never talk about my grandfather. It’s mostly because we never shared a bond that could be the palpable reason for the closeness we never had.
He was always by himself, mostly into his books and his scraps of writings which I’ve only heard about from my father. He wasn’t an outwardly social person, much like I’ve turned out to be but I’m my own man as he was his own.
My mother comes up to me while I read Murakami and tells me how my grandfather used to be into his books too and how he ended being secluded and drove himself into depression in his final days. She tells me that it’s better to be normal than being too much into books. But what does normal mean anyway?
I don’t know if I adapted these qualities from him subliminally, even while maintaining my distance from him but It excites me, if even a little, that books were a part of our family way before I existed.
Maybe I could’ve known him better, maybe I could’ve read those stories or those poems which he so secretively scrambled in his brown vellum diary but I was too young to be infatuated by a mind like his. I only saw that diary once and never again.
I still don’t know much about him but all I can fathom is that he was what he was in those words he wrote and those books he read. I wish to be seen in these words too, besides my flesh and bones. I’m free in these words, I’m whole in these pieces.