Strawberry Fields

A fictional love letter written in early 2010.

Dear Ms. “Strawberry” Fields,

 

The sweet smell of burning strawberry fields no longer permeate the bus. Now, if I want to escape from them I need to be like them. Otherwise, that irritation just gnaws away at my brain. I can’t stand the surrounding silence that greets me on most days. I can’t stand the sight of detached transit riders engrossed in their thoughts staring lifelessly at the floor or out the window.

            The bus would hit every pothole on the road, bouncing up and down like a gangster rappers Cadillac. I was never aware of all this when my nose was overwhelmed by that fruity fragrance which has since blown away to the countryside where it belongs. I was never aware of all of this when my ears were filled with the sound of you - a sound that weaved seamlessly with the clamour of the city life like the wind passing through a strawberry field.

            Unlike you, there is rarely a smile on people’s faces, or at least that look of approachability. So, I enter my own music world with grinding riffs, pummelling drums, and shrieking wah-wah solos blaring out my headphones; isolating myself daily on the bus amongst a crowd of isolated people. It’s not enough though. Like many my age, I have this desire to fly away. If I can’t be with you, then anywhere alone where the unfriendly glares of the unfriendly people cannot penetrate my solitude.

           

 If you were here, you’d tell me to just take the best of what I have. Close my eyes, let the music absorb me and let it take my soul to new heights, and forget for a while that I am surrounded by these detached city folk. Close my eyes, and lie to myself that I am alone. No one would think of me as different because everyone does it.

            I am not accustomed to headphones - those bulgy cups clamped around my ears. When we rode the bus together, we were Siamese transit riders with a bud in my right ear, and the other in your left, while consuming the lifeless silence in our other ear. We reached that new height together. Played our favorite song, 'Strawberry Fields Forever.' Psychedelic. We were high on the melody and rhythm and we played it over and over again. Monotonous, yet addictive, like our lives. Correction, like your life used to be.

 

When you were younger you smelt like teen spirit. It didn’t mean anything, just thought it cool to describe you after our second favorite song. The first time I called you that it tickled the heart of your easily amused self. You laughed an innocent, carefree laugh accompanied by the stomping of your leg or the slapping of your thigh. Overreaction, yes, but it’s you; any other laugh would be sad.

            So, you get the point? I miss it all. Especially on the bus where I am reminded just how much it helps to keep me from going insane. I try to envision the colours of the fragrance, despite the disappearance of that sickly sweet whiff of your burning strawberry field. Let that scent reveal to me the bright red streams, the strawberry perfume emanating from the surface of your pale skin like fog clinging to the ground on a stuffy spring day. The color interweaves with the greyish black streams - the tobacco clinging to your dark clothing. Psychedelic.

           Initially, your scent is invigorating and refreshing, but the more I let it clog my nose the more it suffocates, but strangely, it is a good suffocation.

            Maybe when you visit the city, you’ll come with a basket of strawberries from your home. We’ll get high over their sweetness and listen to the Beatles. Quite frankly, I don’t blame you for moving. I would retreat to the countryside too…if I had a life. But at least, one of us does.

 

                                                                        Forever,

                                                                        Love.