Because they think it’s just writing. They think it’s just a combination of metaphors and other figures of speech and of my imagination, but no. Writing is a way of calling out for help indirectly, hoping that someone could read between those lines of happiness and love that I’m slowly dying because of pain. They do not know. They do not understand because they think it’s just writing. It’s not.
TO THE LAST BOY I WILL EVER LOVE,
I know it seems like I don’t care much about you at all. How I constantly ignore you, push you away, no matter how many times you prove your love to me. How I become too selfish and too caught up in my own feelings sometimes, that I tend to forget to pay careful attention to you, and that I fail to remember you have feelings and you’re hurting, too. How, even after everything we have been through together, I still hesitate in telling you what I truly feel, what goes on in my life, and how difficult it is for you to understand me and reach out to me because I never let you.
But I just want you to know that it’s not because I don’t love you. And it’s not because my trust in you is still not enough, either. Actually, it’s the opposite. It’s the surge that closes me. This love is too powerful, and I just can’t help but feel overwhelmed about it, because it is all new to me. I feel like drowning in myself, hyper-aware of all the heightened senses and emotions I feel towards you. Everything is too intense— which is why I try to run away from it, control it, in any way I can.
But even though I am like that, you should know that I’ve done everything I could to make you stay. That whenever you say goodbye or feel like giving up on me altogether, some part of me dies, while another part struggles to hold you back. That during those times that I’ve hurt you or done something that upset you, I’ve wanted nothing else than apologize to you over and over and tell you just how much I love you and need you in my life.
I swear, I’ve never felt like this with anyone else before and it feels amazing and scary and hopeful all at the same time.
I just… love you. So much. Always.
M: Bumaba ka dito?
A: Bakit ma?
M: Sino ba 'tong babaeng to? *pertains sa babaeng friend niya sa fb na di niya kilala at naka duck face*
A: Ewan ko. accept ka kasi ng accept e.
M: Alisin mo to. Ayokong makakita ng mga picture ng mga babaeng mukhang pwet ng pato ang nguso.
I. She’s a bookworm. She’d rather spend her afternoons inside a cold library than be with you on a date. When you go to malls together, she’d go straight into a bookstore to look for new books to read or just to ogle at the rows of books and wish that she can own the place. At night, she won’t reply your messages with the speed of light. She’ll take her time to reply because it’s a book she’s holding, not her phone. There are chances that she won’t even reply just because she’s already fallen for the book she’s reading. She’ll clutch the book to her chest, heave a sigh and close her eyes to imagine until she falls asleep, forgetting your text message.
II. She’s a debater. She has a fiery attitude and she never backs down during arguments. She’ll fight your words with her own. She’ll present different sides to the situation, doing it systematically and logically. She may whip your ego with a few harsh yet true words. She was trained that way and she’d always have that side of her. She’ll use technical words during serious talk. She prefers to watch the news than watch movies with you. She’ll choose a conversation regarding social issues than talk about hearts and flowers.
III. She’s a writer. Her loyal companions are her pen and paper. She’ll always have those things in her bag no matter where she goes. She’ll write whenever something pops on her head. While you’re talking and her thoughts trail off to a different world, she’ll write and forget that you’re sitting beside her. She’ll have sleepless nights just because she spent her entire night writing. The morning you visit her, she’ll have a scowl on her face when coffee can’t dull the throbbing pain of her head. She’ll curl up on the couch while she tells you her latest work and her frustrations of not finishing it on time. She’ll write for you and for other people because she believes that words are magical. She falls in love with words more often than falling in love with people.
IV. She’s a puzzle that’s hard to solve. She’s made out of thousands of little pieces that forms a messy picture. She has a lot of sides to her self that will make you want to figure her out. But the thing is, it’s hard. She’ll be smiling and laughing, then the next, she’ll be talking in a voice oozing with sarcasm. She can be really sweet but at the same time distant and cold. She’s a puzzle that people get attracted to at the beginning but then, they all leave her alone. No one ever sat down long enough to solve her. That’s why she thinks lowly of herself. She’s so afraid that someone will fix her but then leave her halfway and make a complete mess of her again.
V. Don’t fall in love with her.
I am no good when it comes to English. Unlike others, I can not construct the perfect poem to describe what am I feeling at this very moment. But I can say that English, however is never a nuisance. It taught me various of things. A vast lesson about words and how to weave them into a beautiful dress. Yes, it can be so complicated. For the plural of box is boxes. But the plural of ox, is not oxes. How amazing it is to plunge yourself into a medium you know really well.
Maybe one of the best lesson I learned in English is about the lesson tenses. I’ve learned that I shouldn’t be saying I love you. Instead, I have been loving you. It’s in a present perfect progressive tense- done in that past, but continuing in the present. I also learned that I shouldn’t be saying I miss you to you, instead, I used to miss you. It means I no longer feel the feeling I used to feel. Amazing how a simple suffix could change the entire meaning of a phrase, a word or a sentence. Welcome to the magical world of words.
Writing about love is like reading a passage in a language you can’t speak; you can never grab the essence of it because the meaning is lost in translation. I don’t know how to write about love but the moment I saw you, I thought about how the words began to wring the life out of my heart.
I don’t know how to write about love but for you I am willing to trip over my misplaced commas and fall off the paragraphs with scoliosis that I’ve made. I don’t write about love but for you I am to willing to strip my feelings off and present it nakedly in front of everybody. I don’t write about love but for you I am willing to humiliate myself, wound my ego and shove the face of my pride down the sidewalk. I don’t know how to write about love but for you I am absolutely willing to try.
I’d write about the cheesy opera music that blooms in the background when we talk. About the sunlight that pours out of your mouth when you smile. About the way you’ve taken up permanent residence in my mind, occupying every single thought I have. About the way an angel breaths on my skin whenever you touch me. About the imprints you’ve left inside my heart. About the way I can see my resolute future when we kiss. About how intrepid I am when you’re beside me and about how I feel warm assurance when we hold hands.
I’d write about how I want to climb up a mountain every time I hear you laugh because I’d like to spill out all the joy I’ve kept in my bottle of repression. I’d write about how hard and how fast cupid had hit me with an arrow as big as Jupiter that pinned me to a tree. I’d write about how I choke when I began to dream too big when I met you. I’d write about the way you render me speechless, the way you put a cage of raging butterflies in my stomach, the way you fill my head with thoughts laced with LSD. I’d write about the way I let my baggage of irrational fear about falling and relationships go floating on the riverbank.
And I’d write about how I got this lovely scar on myself the minute you said hello and I fell in love with you. Because I landed face first.
“I need to become a writer,” that’s the first thought that has ever crossed my mind the moment I saw her and learned about her experiences, memories, and wishes. It was an awful thinking, for grammar is too complex and writing is too difficult. What more can “being a writer” bring than lots of criticisms and pressure?
But her life, her life… Her life urged my artless organs, my shaded sensations, my wandering thoughts and my uninteresting imagination. Her life is composed of astronomy, for in her palms lie the essence of the stars twinkling by in a distance;
of mythology, for in her words were born the goddesses of love that percussed my heart strings;
of different writings with unlike timelines and locations which brought me to this willingness to etch those memories of her (that she claimed beautiful even when it’s painfully bringing her hideous nightmares and accumulated ghosts of past) in a very formal manner, by which, the hardest yet best that I can thought of to lay these brainworks, we call writing.
For who, besides me, can bring about a musing that will perfectly reflect to her contemplation about her world that was never seen by anyone? For who, besides me, can feel the same pain that she does and feel worse and worse as the pain goes on continuously inviting brokenness, agony and affliction to her heart? Who else would write for her, the one I’m looking at in the mirror whenever tears started falling down from my face, but me?
“I need to become a writer,” says the person in front of me. We need to make our world known, as all the writers did.
STOP TALKING TO ME CAN’T YOU SEE I AM PLAYING CANDY CRUSH AND YES I AM TAKING THIS SHIT SERIOUSLY.
Some people still feel their appendix hurting even when it was already taken out of their body. It’s called “phantom limb”. It’s a phenomenon observed among amputees where there is a sudden occurrence of excruciating pain on the parts of their bodies which were already cut off. As if the limbs themselves are protesting to seek for their lost connections.
Now, I think you are my phantom limb. I was amputated by your presence and you were cut off of me. But still, I can feel you throbbing at different parts of my body. Sometimes, I feel your arms draped around my shoulders, your fingers entwined with mine, your legs tangled with my own, your heart strings stuck with my melody. My own body is betraying me for still yearning and begging for your touch.
Most doctors said that there is only one thing that can cure the phantom limb. Time.