How I Lost You

I just had to share this all over again. Somehow this post keeps making me cry, which is surprising, for I wrote it myself!

A CAFFEINATED BLOG

“Do not save your loving speeches

For your friends till they are dead;

Do not write them on their tombstones

Speak them rather now instead.” – Anna Cumins

I met her in junior high. We had been those bubbly little girls, always fangirling over some Hollywood character. The memories are hazy. I don’t remember how we looked like, back then. I remember she used to chatter all day long about Brett Lee, often mentioning facts as ridiculous as how many teeth he had lost!

We became quick friends. We used to talk to each other for hours over phone. We used to call dibs on hot anime guys! I was going to be her bridesmaid, she was going to be mine.

Indeed, I have too many happy memories with her.

When and where things went wrong, I don’t remember. I guess, she doesn’t too. Perhaps, it was when I had…

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Of Randomness On Paper

Today, I don’t want to wake up.

I don’t want to wake up from this wonderful dream I’m trapped inside. Or is this real?

The paper below my hand feels coarse. It brushes against my fingers slowly, as if trying to remember every crack and every line on my skin. It is trying to pull me further into its lure.

There’s a pen next to the sheet of the pale, yellow paper. The pen is old with splotches of dried ink and numerous fingerprints on its dull, white exterior.

Somewhere behind me, a clock is ticking to some erratic rhythm. It is just so slow. Every other second seems longer than its predecessor. And with each passing second, the sheet of paper in front of me is slowly starting to fade away. The corners are curling on their own accord and the sides are starting to tear away slowly.

Someone is coaxing me to write.

Someone is asking me to pick the pen and write something. Anything.

Someone is asking me to paint a picture with the words.

Someone is asking me to write.

Don’t they understand that I can’t remember anything?

What am I supposed to write about?

Anything, they cry in chorus.

I know I want to write – about the sun that is nowhere in sight; about the little lamp beside me that flickers to life; about the darkness that envelops me; about the dream that holds me within it.

I know I want to write something – about you; about me; about them, calling out to me. I know I want to write about too many things, but I don’t know where to begin.

Please, they beg me, write something.

The page in front of me is merging into the darker paint of the chestnut table next to me.

Write about us, they tell me.

Who are you? I ask.

But they don’t answer me.

So, I write – I don’t want to wake up.

And here I am, trapped in my dream. Or is this real?