Confessions In Ink

You should know that I’ve longed to intertwine my hands with yours; fingers interlocked, palms pressed to close the distance. That even though it will get clammier by the second, sweat running and creating a humid feeling, I will never let go. Instead, I’ll hold on with the determination you won’t expect, with excitement pulsing through me in irregular beats. We could walk through corridors, alleys, streets and people will see, but I’ll hold it up like a trophy; I won’t be ashamed. I’ll grip your hand tighter, my heart beating in a faster pace.

You should know that your hugs comfort me in a way that blankets do at night and I’m all alone. That the warmth you radiate bounce off in waves and I snuggle against it. Your chest becomes a sudden pillow and when I wrap my arms around you, trying to nonchalantly tap you in the back like it was some sort of bro code so as not to betray the growing feelings inside me, I pray for it to last—even for 0.01 milliseconds. But I pull back anyway and the sun shines in your eyes and I see the color in them, glinting mischievously. And after that, do not wonder why I would shy away—but it is to calm my pounding heart and slow down the rush of blood as it colors my cheeks.

You should know that our secret smiles and stolen glances are enough to keep me going for a day. That those decoded messages and unspoken understandings are ours alone to be passed back and forth, two words colliding in swirl of emotions. Thoughts slip in and out of us; debates over petty things, comparisons over ridiculous discoveries, and agreement over various realizations. If literal speech bubbles existed, ours would be filled with haphazardly placed conversations, written by the exploding mind. But those tiny fragments of the moments we shared would still fit snugly side by side, like missing pieces in a puzzle.

You should know that when people talk about you, my heart skips a beat, my ears perk up in anticipation and my focus sways from what I was originally doing. And when they are two seats or two tables away from me, I will still strive to listen and find a way to hear more. It may be eavesdropping but I’ll still pass by casually, straining to listen about you, flitting descriptions filling my head. And they will giggle about you, laugh at you, fawn over you and I envelope myself in the vulnerability of the matter. I will talk about you too, dropping hints of our memories into my conversations with others and I might smile unknowingly and my stomach will do somersaults and tiny little flutters inside of me will begin.

But there are times that knowing too much is a curse and I might end up sitting in a corner, my thoughts dilly dallying in a world not of my own making. And like the wind passing through my fingers, you slip through my mind as well.

You should know that I like to bask in your attention, laugh at your jokes and even sport a frown when you’re being too tactless. Know that I send group messages about you and about us, but they are hidden between the lines of my favorite quotes and heartbreaking poetry. You live in my world as the knight who will not be in a shining armor, but as a knight whose armor is dented and dirty because he has gone through several quests to reach the tower that is mine. I think of you as the boy who will continue to live on as I describe you as much as I can through pens and papers, forever sealed in ink, in letters of calligraphy or ugly scrawls.

And when you can’t organize your feelings into paper, I’ll present you with ways that are different than the ordinary; you set the pace and I’ll follow closely behind, cautiously leaving our marks on the ground, a reminder of you and I—us.

Lastly, you should know that the struggle of refusing to nurture my feelings for you can be as hard as climbing the cliffside without my own harness. I know about the probability of falling into the depths of sorrows and the current of its ocean engulfing me, waves bobbing up and down, pushing me deeper and farther from the surface. Warning bells go off, followed by the shrill of an unmistakable alarm and flashing signs would greet me face-to-face, glaring neon lights blinding my eyes.

But I am like the moth and you are the flame, the attraction a growing bond that becomes harder to sever.

Note that I will try to stop myself from looking for you in the sea of students, an outstanding figure in the midst of them all. I will try to stop myself from thinking about you in the middle of class, conjuring situations that I long for to exist and happen, daydreams flying in and out of my mind. I will try to lessen the curiosity bubbling inside of me, the longing that led Romeo and Juliet to the end of their tragic story, their ultimate demise.

But I ask for one thing and one thing only.

Listen to my words.

Look into my eyes.

Find me in between these lines and you will know.

Hypnotic Neuroticism

Fragments of me are scribbled on paper, thoughts lined up structurally in ink. Words flit around my mind, a disarrayed combination of phrases and sentences that I want to write down but am too disorganized to do so.

For a writer can have neurotic days and nights, and long before you know it, their brains have exploded into activity that cannot be controlled, tamed. An endless stream of ideas will cautiously climb on top of another, piling up and turn into senseless thoughts that can no longer be filtered for too much is going on. A writer will try to keep up with the pace; pen sliding across the paper and fingers flying over the keyboard in a manner that one does not wish to destroy the buttons too hard but excitement has long ridden one into giddiness to seal ideas forever in ink. Vocabulary battles will always be there; a struggle for definitions and satisfaction over synonyms and antonyms that can be further used into describing rich details with lighted illumination.

A writer may have the gift to juggle metaphors into existence and present them in ways that are understandable to the readers but the process itself has thrown one into throes of unending comparison.

How do I get my message across when I, myself, am struggling to cross my ocean of confusion?

I am a girl with no concrete beliefs, whose spoken verdicts sway like the bamboos in the wind, whose convictions shake and tremble like the hanging bridge, and whose stand for certainty can be as fragile as porcelain. I am a girl who is constantly in a tug-of-war, my decisions weighed thoroughly and surely even in mere subjects of which shirt to wear, bag to use, and book to read. I can be as confusing as a labyrinth, as moody as the weather, and as vulnerable as eggshells.

I traipse through undiscovered worlds in my imagination, locked away in a jail of my own making, never seeming to be free in the inside, deceiving the people who I see everyday. I am a prisoner of my own thoughts, delving further into the depths of words and skylines of ideas, never really reaching them no matter how much I stretch my hands towards them. My lips never really seem to move and my unspoken stories are long being latched with chains.

The problem with knowing too much is knowing how to differentiate anything from fantasy to reality. Different versions of the truth will fry the brain. The mind becomes a neurotic storage without seemingly any chance of getting better. Grappling with sentences and structures become a daily routine, a substantial satisfaction but never seeming to be enough. And if you rip them apart, blood wouldn’t be the only thing bleeding out, but unspoken and unheard thoughts will drip onto the floor, too. A writer’s block can feel like the apocalypse; everything trapped in abyss and no matter how much you try to squeeze it all out, nothing will come, nothing will save you from the despair of frustration as you helplessly swipe at anything. But nothing presents itself.

I become bipolar. Writers become bipolar.

But I am a writer.

I will continue to be a writer.

For they can have so many dreams they would want to wove together in a tangle of colors, stories turned into written entertainment, or information to be passed onto the curious.

The struggle remains, and it thrives within.

But the pleasure of stringing the words into a single thought, a whirlwind of meanings and a cornucopia of emotions, is what keeps me going.