Dear Tarika #1 (Uncharted)

Dear Tarika,

I wish I could tell you that life is easy. That all you have to do is take a piece of chalk, and draw a line segment on the concrete ground, mark one end as A, the other as B, and just walk the distance. I wish that I could tell you that that's all life is about. Unfortunately, it's a little more complex than that, and goes a little like this;

You get up in the morning.

Put on your boots.

Pick out your softest sweater in a muted color.

Tie your hair back in a rather messy pony tail.

Plug in your earphones.

And tune into your favorite radio station.

They're playing Ray LaMontagne, and you haven't heard from him in a while, so you wonder if it's your lucky day.

Today, among other things, you have to make your way from Point A to Point B.

It doesn't seem so hard.

You can clearly see point B, it's not even that far.

So you take the first step, pretty confidently, I must add.

You're greeted with a sudden attack of mist and fog.

You can't see Point B, but you know exactly where it is, so you keep walking regardless.

The next part might be a little hard to believe.

Ready?

 Well, it seems as if you're a part of the movie Mary Poppins, and the wind sweeps you away to an entirely different world. 

The concrete ground has been replaced by dirt and grass, and the high rise buildings that made up your surroundings earlier have been transfigured into tall, extremely tall trees.

You get up, and dust off your jeans.

You scan the area, and tilt your head as far back as it would go in a bid to see how tall these trees actually are.

In the aforementioned attempt, your one foot gets caught in the other, and before you can take a few seconds out to wonder if you're being grammatically incorrect, you find yourself falling.

Someone catches you.

You look up, and find a ruggedly handsome face staring back at you.

And the hurricane of confusion that was wrecking a havoc in your head fades away to make way for another hurricane of confusion.

You're confused about this man, whose arms you currently occupy.

You find yourself wondering.

Is he dangerous?

Could he be a sociopath?

Is he single?

What do we mean by bi-polar bears, anyway?

You're helped back up, and you find yourself choking on awkwardness.

You explain that you need to get to Point B, that you can't stay.

He nods, this wolf of a man.

Oh, how you wish you were Taylor Swift, and could write a song about this beautiful stranger.

He offers to take you to a nearby bar, so that you could use the loo.

And you suddenly find yourself thinking, 'Hey! I do want to use the loo!'

You get to the bar in question, and the bartender pours you a tall glass of water.

The bartender is an old woman, and you find yourself asking her endless, but rather useless questions, regarding her unusually sharp canines.

The woman points you towards the nearest rest room, and you remember you had to go.

You make your way to one of the toilet stalls, and as you close the door behind you and attempt to lock it, you find a massive "D" sprayed across its wooden surface.

Shit.

Shit.

Bloody holy cow and its dysenteric shit.

Bloody shit, you're not supposed to swear.

You run out in complete panic, because this is Point D.

You have to get to Point B, not D.

Out in the hall, you find that the Wolverine's Grandmother of a bartender has managed to stick her tongue down your Prince Charming 's throat.

You decide to steal a bottle or two, while the only staff member is busy 'french-ing' her panties out.

You briefly wonder, what kind.

The panties, I mean.

Anyway, there is a storm raging on outside.

You don't have an umbrella, but you know that you're going to have to head out anyway.

And you do.

You drag your feet in no particular direction.

You're completely drenched.

'Hey!'

You tell yourself that you're hearing voices now.

You tell yourself you're hallucinating.

'Hey!'

You roll your eyes and question your own imagination.

Why the hell is that imaginary voice so annoying, you ask yourself.

Couldn't you have just imagined Jay Baruchel's voice?

It turns out that you aren't actually delusional, and a girl in a yellow raincoat jogs in your direction.

'Hey,' she pants. 'Listen, you're going to catch your death in this storm.'

She waves an umbrella in front of your face.

'Take it.' She insists.

You're touched by her magnanimity, and offer her the alcoholic drinks that you stole.

The girl in the yellow rain coat takes pity on you, and directs you towards the nearest Bed and Breakfast.

As you find yourself eyeballing the disaster that the girl in the yellow rain coat referred to as a 'Bed and Breakfast' (it is, in actuality, a deserted shed) you notice a sign board with the address painted on it in deep red.

It stated the area to be Point H.

Overcome by frustration, you decide to lie down in the mud.

The rainstorm, much like Mystique from the X Men, changes its form, and the resultant hailstorm doesn't fancy you much so it tries it's level best to leave behind some permanent dents on your body.

You close your eyes, and you start singing Miley Cyrus' 'Party In The USA', in a voice that can only be described as a perfect substitute to the noise that empty utensils make when they are rattled against one another.

Against your better judgement, you decide to make mud angels.

 And even though you aren't a big fan of tears, they are in fact too salty for your taste, you cut yourself some slack.

It's okay, you tell yourself, to cry while making mud angels.

It adds an element of romance to the entire scene.

You feel something warm on your left palm.

You lift your head up to determine the cause.

It's a dog doing its business on your beautiful hand.

You tell yourself, that you're trying to make a point about how life works, and it's not always as crappy, kindly excuse the language, as this.

So the dog disappears.

And you let your head fall back in the mud.

What happened next is a little foggy.

A man (or a woman) hears you sing, thinks that a racoon is dying somewhere, driven by curiosity, decides to see what is up.

Finds you.

Helps you up.

And as you continue to weep, he/she takes you by the arm and leads you to a nearby cottage.

Fin.

No, not really.

You wake up in a small room, on a tiny bed, with a cat licking your ear.

Fortunately for you, life is sometimes kind, and people aren't always bad.

They also don't always stick their tongues down the throats of highly attractive people that you're interested in.

You sit up.

You stroke the cat.

Then you kick off the covers, scoop the cat up, and bolt to the nearby window.

The weather has cleared up.

And the sunrise, oh, the sunrise is breath taking.

The entire sky has been splashed with various hues of pink, orange, purple and gold.

And your jaw drops open a little.

It's called being struck by amazement.

(Can't recall a GRE word for the same.)

There's a knock on the door.

You turn.

There's a boy there, with a very quizzical look plastered on his face.

You thank him and ask how he managed to get you here.

He shakes his head and informs you that it was somebody else who had found you last night, and that they've asked him to check on you.

You nod your head for no reason at all, and thank him anyway.

He makes basic inquires about your health and well being.

You assert the fact that you're feeling just about fine.

'Aren't you interested in knowing what this place is?' he asks. 'Aren't you interested in knowing where you are?'

You look down at the cat in your arms, which has taken a fancy to your thumb, and is licking it with utmost passion.

You bury your face in its soft coat.

Cats smell nice.

'Does it matter?' you murmur.

'Excuse me?'

'I said, does it even matter? I'm here now. That's about it.'

The boy rests his head on the door frame, tilts his head and laughs a little.

'Okay, then.'

He turns to leave.

'Have we met before?' you find yourself asking.

'Meet me at the breakfast table downstairs in about ten minutes, you'll have your answer.' he replies.

You purse your lips to suppress a smile.

Put the cat down.

Dig into the pocket of your mud infested denim jeans, and fish out a piece of chalk.

Sit on the floor, cross-legged.

And make a nice and clear "B" on its surface.

Does it really matter, if this place is actually not?

"B" that is.

(Does it matter how you get to Point B?)