I could only say this: for the rest of my life, I will keep writing you letters that I’m all too certain you’ll never, ever get to read not because you can’t but because you wouldn’t want to. You never wanted to read the letters in which I tell you all about my dreams and fears, so I do not have much hope that you’ll want to bother with the rest of the lighter, perhaps much more intolerable crap I write to you during days when I lose all sense and just decide that I want to write to you because this was how we used to be. We used to write letters back and forth, and it has been years since I last read your letters and do you ever re-read mine? Or is it stashed in the “Treasure Box” that more often ends up nothing but a square thing that collects dust and holds inside it things that were once treasured, things whose memories become more than enough to sustain the importance of
Whatever, dude, I can’t keep doing this shit, I can’t write for shit. You know what, I don’t even want to try writing all these thoughts. My fingers can’t quite keep up with my brain, and I always find that when I write like this, devoid of focused thought, I end up with sentences I would never have strung together had I been in better mindset.
In the beginning, there was always Something. Something off about the timing, something annoying about the way you follow people around, something unnerving about your ability to say you love someone without batting an eye (whatever that means and however it’s done). Something was wrapped around you and clothed you in questions, mysterious gestures, wondrous answers. Something was the way you walked, that uneven gait, that curved back from years and years of carrying heavy books in long-suffering bags. Something was your grin and that lopsided smile I once caught on camera and had printed but very quickly destroyed.
And then, ’round the middle, there was Somewhere. This was where I sat down and realised that when time came, it was your name I ended up looking for in the roster. This was the garden where we almost kissed, and this is the long-winding road home that we always used to take. Somewhere was where I first thought to give it a chance. Somewhere was the first kiss, the first hug, the first touch of fingers and palms.
In the end, there is Someone Somewhere who once did Something, and I don’t want that, but Something is off and Somewhere is vague, and Sometimes thoughts are always painfully irrelevant to emotions, and I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
Things that make me happy:
Food, coffee, mocha, chocolates, books, blankets, pens, paper, notebooks, musical instruments, people who play musical instruments, games, desk lamps, the smell of grass in the morning right after the dewdrops settle and right before the heat rises, rubbing my feet against rough textures, late-night showers, “some goddamn peace and quiet”, a mango fruit, distractions from real-life bullcrap, stories, electric fan winds, the first few winds that blow away the summer heat, the first few drops of rain that herald the arrival of storm season, the smell of books, the smell of coffee and books together in a cosy place fit for rainy days, rainy days, bestest friends, useless fierce friends, jealous mothers, overprotective real mothers, thought-provoking fan fiction, inhumane drawing skills, other people’s happiness, and his eyes.
I could only say this: the greatest enemy is pride.