Letters

One day, I will have you.

You who will be as lost as my teenage self, and as stubborn as youthful, blinded love. And in those temperamental days where I will hear nothing but carefully crafted words of hate (nothing but the vexed under-the-breath murmurs of "I don't EVER want to talk to you" and whatever new concoction of swear words popularized at that time), I will pull out a dainty collection of letters that I have written for you a long time ago, only to slip them right underneath the door which you have just closed shut with a deafening slam. To make a point, I suppose.

In those letters, words will read of moments that had materialized even before your were capable of forming memories. They will tell you how soft your baby-lotion rubbed feet felt against my calloused skin. They will recount how sick you were, for the third time in weeks, and how I could do nothing but helplessly watch as tears stream down your face, all the while desperately wishing that I could give you my healthy body.

They will remind you of your first day at kindergarten, when you scanned the room of what you saw in your eyes as predators at a war field, and how you steadfastly held onto my legs unwilling to let go. They will remind you of your run to the door at the first sight of me coming home from work. Your first accidental kiss with your second-grade best friend. Your first loss in sports. Your first win in our card game that, as you would have never found out until now, I had purposely dropped my cards and made you catch that glimpse of my hand.

In those words, memories are embedded to testify how exceptionally fortunate you are, to have a history with me in times that has passed. Memories that most probably will not alleviate your steaming anger even after you have read them in bittersweet tears behind your — still — closed doors, but they are memories that I have noted, and cherished nonetheless.

And in those memories, a foundation to which countless more will be built upon, lies a testament of years after years of love, care, and patience that, to some, could only be fantasized as nothing but luxury. So, read the letters, over and over again. And when you finally decide to emerge from your room, I will still be there.

As I always have been.

Latitude

LATITUDE, n.

“We’re not, like, seeing other people, right?” I asked. We were barely over the one-month mark, I believe.
You nodded.
“Excellent,” I said.
“But I have to tell you something,” you added - and my heart sank.
“What?”
“At first, I was seeing someone else. Only for the first week or two. Then I told him it wasn’t going to work.”
“Because of me?”
“Partly. And partly because it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

I was glad I hadn’t known I was in contest; I don’t know if I could have handled that. But still, it was strange, to realize my version of those weeks was so far from yours.

What a strange phase - not seeing other people. As if it’s been constructed to be a lie. We see other people all the time. The question is what we do about it.

— David Levithan, The Lover's Dictionary

On Creating

"If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.” ― Kurt Vonnegut

Fifth life

I have been hit with feelings of inadequacy. Each time stronger than the last. I wish someone could calm my nerves and remind me that I am only twenty one. You are only twenty one. It certainly sounds more reassuring coming from the lips of another person. Someone who is not constantly churning self-critiques in his or her mind. Maybe this is what they call a fifth life crisis: an overwhelming realization of incompetence, along the very much dreaded what-have-I-been-doing-all-along and what-do-I-do-next questions. I have never felt like an unaccomplished designer as strongly as I do now, but I suppose this would be the time seeing as I am in the awkward in-between stage of 'counting down the months to oh-so-exciting graduation' and 'BAM–reality'. There is a lot that I have yet to learn. I have always known that, but somehow the phrase a lot has taken on a new meaning in the past two weeks and now encapsulates every single discipline imaginable. Every theory studied or written. And, let's not forget, every single thing that I suck at.

My brain hurts. I need a good sleep, a good meal, and a good day off.

Some words

Insomnia-induced writing is becoming a habit of mine. Not that I actually write on any other occasions, or that anyone reads what I write for that matter, but somehow my spiderweb of muddled thoughts become a lot more substantial when it turns into a few kilobytes of information in the cyberspace. Still, even under the internet's safety blanket, I hold back. There are some words every square inch of my body would like to scream, but my mind, the stupid little hamster on the wheel that thinks right at the wrong time, refuses to translate them into keystrokes. Instead, a small anecdote seems like a fitting precursor to my next (and very-possibly failing) attempt of what can only be referred to as an early morning confession.

Few days ago some words were said to me that I thought I would never hear, at least not then, not there. Needless to say, the words stuck. And what is it with words anyway? Strung together a certain way and people respond with the grimiest curse they could think of. Strung together a different way and a nation is bestowed with wisdom and hope. Now the words that were said that particular day, though many, seemed to have mastered the perfect combination that guarantees permanence. And in a world, my world, where short-lived phenomenons are the norm, permanence is a dangerous concept that I cringe at. It suggests fixity, an idea that is not easy to digest, or accept. Not at all.

Ironically still, my heart leaped at the suggestion. I secretly embraced it because it is all that I had wanted. It was what I lack. And crave.

The thought of those very words... (sentences... it hardly matters now) warranted a smile on my face, or in my mind, whichever imparted more gratitude. After all, I admired the courage behind the words as I would never have been able to speak of them. Even amidst the knowledge of being unreachable beyond the computer screen, I barely have the courage to say the following now: I have fallen much deeper than I had ever allowed myself. But I know, that with no end in sight, I am willing to venture deeper into the new and unfamiliar, so long as I can look back and you are there with me.

Hello Thursday

Things

It's funny where all the little things take you. How the most minute details can change the outlook of what is to come. I am not a believer of fate. Nor am I an advocate for the create-your-own-destiny mentality. I just try to let things run their courses. I try, and then sometimes, I fail at trying. Naivety gets the better of me when I decide to become a master in the trajectory of my life. I would attempt to calculate change, because control is comforting. But then I remember— I thrive off of spontaneity and live for the exciting, dangerous land of uncertainty. I remember— how happy I am right now, at the way everything unfolded, never knowing at any point what is going to happen next. And that is really all that I had wanted, for all the little things to take me to a road of innocent, uncomplicated happiness.

Time away

paradise island, bahamas

I can't help but reminisce about the handful of sleeps I had by the ocean waves. How light my body felt, when every morning I woke up steadfastly holding on to the present. Foreign. Different. But still strangely at home with the untamed pulses of the water. Remembering the coloured sun that kissed and burned, I silently wish for my muted footprints to trail behind once more. And then, there were the sandy banks. The ones lined with granules of perpetually wandering minds. The ones laden with memories that are only ours to keep.

Unbirthday

I wish,

to wish myself a happy day of birth
and feed myself the comfort of cake and affection.
Make ridiculously pointless desires upon cheap wax candles
and gorge in a wistful celebration of self-absorption.

7497 days young.

Does it have to be every three hundred and sixty fifth?

Dream aloud.

Eleven minutes into the morning, and I want to drive into the full moon. I want to see the world in another light. I want to get travel high. Live in nostalgia. Find my roots. Walk a mile. I want to explore the unexplored, emotions and places alike. I want to run in the sand, fall, and get back up again. Ride a motorcycle in eyes of envy. Jump off a cliff with fears of death. Race to swing the highest. Hug tight, and never let go. Write until the ink runs out. Embarrass myself, and run away.

I want to wait aimlessly.

Cross a border. Meet a celebrity, and give them my autograph. Fall for the worst romantic cliché. Make cupcakes. Blow a candle on my unbirthday. Fight and make up. Write a letter and lick the envelope. Fall asleep under the blanket of midnight sky. Cry over a sad movie. Laugh until my cheeks hurt.

I want to make an enemy.

Sing my heart out. Dance with my own shadow. Buy happiness and throw it out the next day. Worry less. Have a picnic by a waterfall. Forget tomorrow and live in the now. Love without fear. Believe in lies. Play hide and seek. Let go. Make mistakes. Count the stars, only to lose count. Materialize my thoughts. Start a fire, in your heart. Be better. Inspire someone. Lose myself in the game of life.

I want to give my all.

I'm (not) always this ambitious, I swear.