I’m neither an artist nor a poet. I write — and even that is never good enough to express how I wait for the day I meet you. Pages and pages of stories– both fact and fiction — I have written about love and longing but all of them feel like something’s missing, something above and beyond my comprehension.
I write to you with no time frame in mind. I may meet you tomorrow, or the next year, or the next decade. Or maybe, just maybe, I have met you– on my way to get coffee, or while waiting in line for my train ticket. I write to you without knowing who you are, what you’re like, and where you’re at. I write to you knowing only that you exist, and for some cosmic reason, you exist for me, because of me. I write to you with all the longing my nineteen years on earth could muster, with all there is to me — my heart, my soul, my life. I give them all to you. If only you would come and find me…
As the poison spreads through her veins, she’s more relaxed, more lucid, less worried. The fire in her eyes die. They’ve always been dull, she muses. Her thoughts are a scattered mess, barely recognizable in the thick, foggy haze. Her eyes roll back her lids, her head swoons and hits the couch. If she’d been standing, she would have fallen and hit the glass coffee table. She chuckles as she ponders on that possibility. It would have been quicker but she hates blood. She manages to laugh softly, a maniacal, strangled sound. As if blood would matter. As if she would have the energy to care. How her hair would tangle in the caked pool of her own blood. How her dress would soak and turn into a red bloody mess. How unpretty the sight would be. If only her will to live was even a tenth of her vanity.
Her breathing slows into shallow puffs. Her heartbeat reduces to soft thumps. She can’t feel her limbs, her own skin. She’s numb but her brain switches to sudden clarity, as alert as it could ever be. She keeps waiting for that flashback, her life from the beginning in fast-forward. She keeps waiting for the bright white light. She’s waiting for something, anything.
Seconds turn into minutes. She counts her heartbeat.
Three hundred twenty-five.
Her breathing stops.
Three hundred twenty-six.
She closes her eyes.
Three hundred twenty-seven.
She’s still waiting for something. Anything.
Three hundred twenty-eight.
Her hearing fails.
Three hundred twenty-nine.
She resigns to her fate– immortalized in numbness and disappointment.
It was over. It didn’t hurt. That was her only consolation.
It’s quarter to six. I haven’t slept yet. I lay in my bed completely still, waiting for signs of movement outside my room. I wait for the opening of doors, the footsteps, the running water. I wait for something, anything that would tell me I’m not alone. But as I listen more closely, all I hear is the sound of my breath, the beating of my own heart.
I’ve always written stories in third person. To detach myself from my writing, I guess. While my character cries her heart out and curses the world, I stand on the sidelines– observing and transcribing everything into words. My character moves on, not necessarily getting her happy ending, but at least a closure that she deserves. I observe, and I write. I don’t get my happing ending. I don’t get my closure.
This is why I’m writing in first person now. I cry my heart out, I curse the world. I take the blame, I take the credit. I do the action, I get my closure. I move on. End of story.
Of missing out.
Of losing control.
Of hurting.
Of happiness.
I’m scared of myself.
For being not good enough
For being controlling
For having too much emotional baggage
For leading you on
For lying to myself
For not knowing who I really am
For not knowing who I want to be
You see the beginning,
The letters
The notes
The longing glances
The stolen kisses
The warm embrace
The intimate touches
While I predict the end.
And it scares me
How much I can hurt you
How much I can hurt myself
The heavy rains continued to pour as she stood by the large narra tree, her left hand holding up a red umbrella, the other clutching her raincoat closer to her shivering form. Despite the foul weather, a hint of a glum smile began tugging at the edge of her lips.
She tossed the red umbrella aside as she took a tentative step forward. Even with the translucent veil of raindrops, she knew where she was going. She made her way across the field, her feet never breaking a practiced rhythm, never missing a beat.
Young and full of running
Tell me where has that taken me?
Just a great figure eight or a tiny infinity?
It was one of those lazy days. She was staring at the soccer field, wondering how it managed to stay as green as it was despite the scorching sun. Or at least, that was what she told herself she was doing. He was conveniently seated by the window overlooking the field, back hunched over a pile of papers, and lips pursed in concentration.
Soccer field. She was looking at the soccer field.
With one last gaze, she sighed.
Tomorrow, she said. It was always tomorrow.
Love is really nothing
But a dream that keeps waking me,
Her hands were shaking as she reached for the door, partly from the cold, and partly from the darkness that embraced the atmosphere.
It had been quite some time since she’d been here, but everything was the same. The jarring familiarity buckled her knees, sending her kneeling in the middle of what was once her sanctuary. Their sanctuary.
For all of my trying, we still end up dying
How can it be?
They were polar opposites; that was pretty apparent. There were days that they’d argue to no end. It was about everything and nothing at the same time.
The more they humor each other, the more she fell.
The more she knew the crash would hurt.
Don’t say a word, just come over and lie here with me
‘Cause I’m just about to set fire to everything I see
Trust me, he said—and she did— so much it scared her, thrilled her, sent her to a roller coaster of emotions, some she even had no name for.
The rain pounded harder and faster but his words echoed loud and clear across the cottage. Her knees were numb from kneeling, but her heart was not. Hot, salty tears rolled from her eyes, across her cheeks, her lips, finally dropping onto the floor.
It was two months of bliss. Two months of a well constructed façade.
I want you so bad; I’ll go back on the things I believe
There I just said it; I’m scared you’ll forget about me
They say that drunken words are sober thoughts.
Four shots of tequila later, she was heading towards him, false bravado in hand. One kiss was what she needed. One kiss to purge him out of her system.
In the tiniest corner of this microcosm, I write. Not because I want the world to know. Not because I want you to know. Not even because I want to. I write because it’s the only escape, the only thing that keeps me sane enough to function– enough to breathe.
Reality is a suffocating domain I never want to go back into.
Raw and unadulterated inspiration is like being hit by a freight train. It hits you hard. It shatters your world. But like any other freight trains, the moment passes just as quickly as it arrived. The rustling of the leaves, the high pitched wail of the train, the grinding of the metal tracks, those are the only ones you’re left with — the faint recesses of a once astounding idea. It leaves you gaping, and seemingly hollow, dragging every part of you along its tracks. Little by little it rips you apart. All the way until nothing’s left. All the way until you’re laid bare, stripped of nothing but the willowy frame of your former self– pieces of your mind and soul given away and immortalized in black and white.
Holy Crap. I’m going to effing die. Right here, on the high bar chairs of Starbucks Shangri-La. I just finished sending my article and my photos for the school news paper (which took me sooo long to do because of the poofing internet connection) but I’m still on the verge of getting my head bitten off by the scary dragons, also known as my parents. I swear, my mother’s more than ready to do that if I come empty handed after this day. Huh. What can I do? It’s not like I can forge my teacher’s signature (not that I’d actually do that even if I can). I’d be damned forever if I do that. And I’d be damned forever if I don’t get my card.
How the eff am I going to explain this to my parents? Hey mom, dad, you know I’m a frustrated photographer, right? Yeah, about that, I somehow managed to be even more of a frustrated photographer. But definitely more on the frustrated side than the photographer one. And oh, I won’t be able to enroll because of that.
Yeah. That’ll go smoothly, I’m sure. NOT.
I hope my parents have already picked my burial lot because I’m going to die from panic attacks. That is, if they don’t kill me before I actually suffer from acute panic attacks. That’s fine, I guess. Me dying equals n million pesos of insurance money. They can use it to build me an uber cool mausoleum with a rooftop over looking the sea. Not that I get to appreciate that when i’m dead. But hey, that’s really uber cool.
But while I’m still in my comfort zone, which is actually the innermost corner of Starbucks Shang, I’ll spend my remaining hours getting drunk by the sight of an uber hot dude sipping a venti caramel macchiato. And yeah, getting two years worth of my caffeine fix. Maybe that’ll knock me down enough to bring me to the ER and buy more time. That is if the paramedics don’t proclaim me as ‘dead on the spot by caffeine overdose.’ But I’ll take my chances.
