That’s not what I crave for. Tell me your biggest fears, your worst nightmares. The person you always dreamed of becoming when you were a kid, and why you think it’s an improbable dream now that you’re grown up. The reason why you never finished reading a particular book. Tell me what ticks you off and how you’re able to find peace just by looking at the serene night sky. Tell me about that old man you saw in the train, clutching his own cane, alone. Or how you would rather not wear your jacket in the midst of a February midnight breeze. Tell me about your frustrations and what makes you hate people so much. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else before.
I wanna know the depths of your mind, see the shadows of your heart. I want to embrace your humanity—you as a person of vulnerability and strength, not just another being forced to live just because you were given life. I want to trace my fingers through every inch of the scars your soul acquires every time you find yourself lost and no one heard your cries. Because I want to be that person who hears. I want to kiss all your bruises whenever life knocks you down yet you still find a way to wake up everyday with a forgiving smile. I want to be the person who helps you heal your ache. I want to be the one you find yourself at home with whenever you cannot seem to find a place where you can fit in this desolate world.
All I want is to be that someone who never leaves you at your lowest point. Who bears with you no matter how rough and ugly things could get. That someone who believes in you when you don’t. Not because I want the same intense of affection from you in return, but because I know exactly what it feels to yearn for a company that’s never there, and I don’t want you to feel that way.
And it’s okay, if you cannot be the same for me, trust me.
They say I cannot love someone else if I didn’t love myself first. Or that I cannot help somebody else, if I didn’t help myself first.
But would I let these lack of self-love, and helplessness stop me from loving others more than I love myself, or save someone before I can save myself?
I won’t let it, if I have to. I will still do it, if that’s the only way I can find purpose in my living. Even if it means I’d give more than what I have, even if I end up broken; I’ll pick myself up—I’ll deal with that. But what I can’t handle is to see the people I care about suffer, while I sit here in the comforts of my own delusional pyschobabble thinking everything will eventually turn out fine without even me taking action.
I may be no artist
But let me draw you
With my own
Stroke of words
And color you
With the same passion
Running through my veins
Up unto my heart
In that way
I’d immortalise you
And the memories we’d never make
And keep the artwork
In my own
While you pass your years away
Living the life you always wanted
Living the life as if I’d never existed.
Phones are not that much of a privacy in our home, as we (my parents and I) don’t keep secrets from each other. Having said that, all of us are free to just grab each other’s phones on the table and scroll through it. I always, like everyday, borrow their phones, and so skimming through their text messages too. It always makes me so “kilig” (hoity-toity, as how Google would translate but it’s more of a giddy matter to me) whenever I read my parents’ exchange of messages. It usually goes like this:
Mom: Asawa ko, ung gamot mo ha, luv u. (My husband, don’t forget your meds, love you)
Dad: Asawa ko, OK. Luv u so much (My wife, okay. Love you so much)
Or something like this during lunch:
Dad: Asawa ko, kain na ko. Ikaw din. Luv u. (My wife, I’ll eat now. You too. Love you)
Mom: Kakain na rin ako. Luv u too. (I’m about to eat mine. Love you too.)
Aren’t they the cheesiest? And by cheesiest, I mean sweetest. Seems to me like they’re going back to that honeymoon stage. And I can’t help this playful smile on my face as I write and share this cute (at least to me) story with you.