People

So much power in the act of writing, or so I choose to place my faith in. I have written letters for people with no faces and no names, crafting pieces for an unknown recipient. I do not think that I am foolish for trying something unreturned, for who knows if in these secret doings will someone find reason to hope again?

Leave a scattering on the car window, pages of old, table worn and other possible places. Run like the wind, don’t get caught or the magic spell may find itself undone.

In my timid heart I do fear that I may be playing with fire, but I will continue building and see if there is more than this fragile house of cards.

I am caught up thinking about the future, though it is not something I do often. I do not see it as a feasible thing to do, to muse on multiple unknowns, and the way a possible moment ahead wilts simply because I had forgotten to water the seed once sown is frightening to consider.

Yet I am thinking of all of the people I have yet to meet, and might still. Who knows what stories will fill these blank pages, and will the ink bleed dry too early?

I wonder how are all of you. How do I speak and give attention to each without sounding lost or despicably biased? I do not know how, but I will try and try, over and over.

Are you lonely and hurting, whoever you are, having to hold your own mind to keep it altogether.

Are you happy and filled, perhaps after a meal satisfying and sweet, almost tripping over a piece of broken glass by the bin.

Are you angry and desperate, at the world that will not move the mountains to reach.

Are you sleepy and tired, a face on the other side of the world, a tinsel of stars outside the bedroom window.

Are you nervous and tingly, set for a path mysterious, one that may lead you to me.

I know how life can take a turn for the unexpected, for I will be changed for always due to my 2017. Maybe it is both thrilling and fearsome, the way I may continue to face more twists and strains. Maybe my spirit will find itself bending under the weight of these journeys.

Where am I going?

I may ask this from time to time, say it to the ocean whose stunning roars will drown my shallow doubts. I still do not know, but I will hold on to the broken seashell gifted to me in a land far away, where its cool waves have once capered among my feet.

I continue to look at the road after things are long gone, and this is how I meet you.

A child, that’s what I should have been, but I was one attending secondary school. People see you in places alone but in my case, dreams led me to you.

Did we say hello at first glance? This I cannot recall, but I knew from the very start that you were different. Your manner and the way you speak, you cannot be from this place.

We might have met at other places, but the park is the venue I remember best. We would sit on the bench and talk. You had a way of loosening my tongue, despite my reticent nature. Your voice, it was a low hum, calm and strange. It follows me even after I wake.

And then, you vanished.

Or maybe, I did the vanishing after all.

I am angry, incredibly angry, at my failing memory. Desperate for a clue, often trying to understand how our communication broke. When did I lose my way? They say that people of your kind disappear with age and time, when the need for a companion no longer exists but how dare you, how dare you share so many moments and carelessly disappear afterwards?

You were a phantom and I thought of you everyday.

Are you still waiting at the park? Because I no longer know how to get there.

In the darkness, I still see you.

Though your soothing voice is slowly leaving and your wise smile fading, you remain undeniably special to me.

What a friend you turned out to be, one I never quite imagined at all.

It is the thought of you that keeps me from my craft, impressing a desire to write of our friendship. Admittedly, it is not only today you occupy, but the various yesterdays.

Friend of a friend, connection loosely strung over the social network. Converse we do, and we find ourselves in an interesting situation — while mostly strangers, we are much alike.

Gradual texts of a growing length, subjects aplenty. Music, books, and even the question of life itself. Who would guess that these two reticent humans would find each other?

In real life we hardly meet, constant lurkers of the online space. Yet I forget not the day you came for a significant event when another thirty would not. Despite the traffic and the pouring rain, your arrival meant a great deal to me. The only one of them all.

You asked then confused at the scene, why did you invite me here?

I replied poorly in my concealed gratitude, why not?

Why not, truly.

Distance increased over the years, and while our speakings dipped with the trough and peaks of life’s tidal wave, what wonders a simple message would do. A reconnect, tardy as some may be.

It is possible that I may never be coherent enough to express your importance in my life, especially when we are not close in relations in the end. But bless you I do, in these secret writings and feelings.

Un du evari’nya ono varda.

May the stars watch over you.

Years pass, and we grow up in ways unexpected.

Even so, by the way the warm sunlight bounces off your face and the crinkle of your inquisitive eyes, I know that I’ve held a love special for you.

I don’t know why I write of these things now, yet maybe I do. There’s been a gap in time, where we’ve spent our lives apart. While we’ve not faded from each other’s thoughts, change has taken one another for a ride.

We’re close, able to speak of many things despite differences. I remember supporting you in the hardest of times, to perceive your strengths when you no longer did, and you’ve had a way of making me try more, to do more. Never did you break me with your involuntary angry speakings, hurt as I may have been.

So have I, for I remain humanly faulty. In ways unintended, I’ve injured you, like the time I accidentally kicked sand into your face when all I wanted was to play. All I’ve ever desired is for you to grow well, and to stay honest, no matter how difficult the journey would become.

Held my weak hand with strong ones you did, through my terrible episodes when the nights seemed forever long. I recall those dark eyes watching me with such caring, a sight I could hardly believe lest I misunderstood. To trust in the tender attention of another is an experience incredible. Sing me to sleep and stories told, simply to battle the rage of my restless heart. Wordless conversations across the room, a little ruffle on the head.

While outsiders prodded at our relations, we remained steady. What more could I ask for?

I’m coming home, and I wonder deeply as to who I will be meeting.

Will it be, that your hair has grown in a new style, or that you’ve gotten new shoes I’ve never known of before? Are there unfamiliar hobbies picked up, or forgiveness to be extended? What have you done in my absence? Will I find in myself still a heart to embrace you?

I remain shy and impossible with fierce expression, yet may it be that in my soul there’s a bravery mustered to know you all over again, if there’s a need to do so. I don’t intend to be like a passenger facing backwards on a train, endlessly pining for what’s already gone.

I promise this in the quiet, where in a world permeated with outrageous displays of affection of loose kisses and meaningless tangled bodies, my pinky finger loops yours.

To be physical is not my demand, yet I will reach in myself a desire to reach out to you, if doing so will keep you safe. I will wrap my arms around in fierce affection, complete the space between fingers and pray my hardest to never let go.

There is a different pain, slow and terrifying, in watching the people you care suffer.

It has always been about you, is what you claim, that the wrongness of things persist. Never do you consider yourself a smile or a pocketful of bright, nor the velvet cool of a nocturnal’s shadow. Both have their strengths and beauty, but in yourself you are a stone drowning in a hidden pool.

The constant picking on sleeves and the hemline, how deep is the ache to tear them away. So many threads pulled taut, adjusted every moment or two. Strings weaved in order to purport a clever disguise. Patches of irrelevant cloth, threaded onto your back as temporary salves to save a facade failing.

You think, you truly think that you are pulling yourself together but I recognise that you are a sweater unravelling, and in time even my trembling figure can no longer support your breaking frame.

I am standing in front of you, in the same room with a heart screaming — yet all I can do in the end is watch your lungs choke on wool and inconsolable sorrow, and I am left behind with the mess of you.