proof that nothing ‘productive’ happens after 2 AM

*nervous laughter*

photo from parisapartment.wordpress.com –

To the MAN of my dreams (literally),

Often I wonder why I can see you better with my eyes closed, when sandman’s dust has me under its spell. Does it mean I’m incapable of welcoming you- any semblance of you- into my days as much as my nights? Maybe I have- once- but you never came or worse, you did but decided to break my heart.

Truly I was never romantic. Just the mere suggestion of the word makes me cringe but some part of me, most likely the part I suppressed so purposefully that it can only haunt me in my slumber, still believes you too are somewhere wondering where I am.

When (or if) our paths finally cross, know that I’m not expecting a walking checklist or somebody’s reinterpretation of perfect. I’m a rebel that way.

I don’t have many delusions of love or relationships or forever because some time ago my dad sat me down and told me how loving someone is messy and consuming and scary and … real. There won’t be a fairy godmother to ward off  vile creatures (you know what I mean- the slutty kind) or a magic wand to make the other eternally agreeable to my every whim. It will take work. Trust me, I get that.

If I may, I ask that you be patient with me. I’ve been hurt a lot you see- mostly by people I trusted blindly. I may ignore you, only take a second to look at you or push you away completely but if you see a future with me, hang in there. I assure you I ALWAYS notice. Soon enough  you’ll win me over if you haven’t already.

When I close my eyes, I imagine waking up to a faint burnt smell from the kitchen where you tried to cook us breakfast. Teasing you about your little mishap and you feigning hurt will be our morning’s humor. I’ll laugh at ALL your jokes and be your biggest cheerleader on every game even if you don’t ever leave the bench. You’ll indulge my reading habits and my obsessive need to collect comic books. You even find my inability to ride a bike or serve a volleyball charming.

We’d spend lazy afternoons in our sweats watching a movie or playing Call of Duty. Together we’d pursue our passions and be happy for each other’s every accomplishment. We’ll never forget to say sorry or leave a fight unresolved. I’ll learn to give you space when you ask for it but never be too far for when you need a hug or a kiss or just someone to assure you it’s all gonna be okay. Other people’s opinions about us won’t matter because I care more about you than them anyway. We’ll be each other’s best friend and we’ll grow up, be silly, see the world and be happy together.

I don’t expect our relationship to be perfect like the fairy tales I used to read or like the romcoms my sister quotes all the time. I’d rather have one that’s real and yes, messy and imperfect and at times, difficult but it will be ours and that’s so much better. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be waiting. I just know you’re worth it. For now, I’ll see you in my dreams.

Still metaphorically sleeping,

Yours

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unmailed letter

I read somewhere, sometime ago that bottled emotions especially for other people are best written then kept. That way you get to rid yourself of all the tension; you’re able to express what you truly feel without the possibility of hurting someone else. So I did that.

 I guess that may be the reason why I wanna come clean, to dispense myself of this secret. It’s just too heavy to carry around and you know I wanna go places.

Writing down each word is therapy in itself. It almost feels like I’m talking to him without feeling the compulsion to constantly reword everything, so it doesn’t offend him, so it fits his standards, so it lives up to mine. I could just finally say it and not be sorry I did.

I could sit here all day long and come up with the perfect excuse, the most reasonable one, why I never said anything and decided everyday to stay mum but the truth is I was scared. And you know me, I am seldom scared.

After every word has gone and I have exhausted all I wanted to say, a part of me feels guilty that he will never get to read it. It’s like when a guy likes a girl so much but has decided to be a secret admirer, leaving roses on her doorstep and poetry in her locker. Although he’s so scared for fear of rejection, a part him just wants to come clean and tell her in person because there’s still no substitute for an actual real life conversation with her- not even his imagined romantic day with her. Well, I feel that way. Because more than the frustration I wrote are truths that a part of me believes he deserves to know.

I’m not sure if were meant to be friends for the rest of our lives. I’m not even sure if we’d have each other’s number in 5 years but I’d like this letter to remind you (and in a strange telepathic way remind me) that while I pen these words, you mean so much to me. You’ve made a big impact on my life and I will forever admire the way you chose to live your life- uncompromising and full of integrity.

Even as I type this entry out I still haven’t decided whether I should mail him the letter or not. If I don’t mail it, I still have successfully accomplished my mission to dispense myself of all that I have to say to him without having to feel embarrassed about whatever else I wrote. If I do, we might need to talk about and right now I’m sure if that’s a good thing or not.

I guess maybe I was hoping by the end of this entry I’d finally know what to do but still, nothing.

the ‘JEANS’ analogy

To my dearest jeans,

It is with deep sadness that I write these words today for you are an amazing piece of clothing and a really good investment of my money. 5 years ago, your strange yet appealing dark denim fabric caught my eye as you were draped alone in one of the hangers of that crowded store. Strange, I thought. For such a happy, crowded store, these denim trousers felt so alone. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to you, why I tried you on. After securing the last of your zippers (man you have so many), I realized you weren’t as snug or as comfortable as most my jeans are. For what I thought was a long while, I deliberated whether I should purchase you or not. Were you worth it or was I just appraising your value too much because I felt we had a connection?

 I took a chance.

You know how the rest goes right? The first few times I wore you, it felt a bit like the first. It was awkward and a bit tight but we got through that. It took some effort on both of us. I had to try to wear you with different tops, ones I don’t normally wear and you had to endure my desperate attempts to jump up and down after I’ve had a big lunch just so you’d fit.

The more I wore you and washed you, the safer and happier I feel wearing you. You give me an air of confidence I don’t feel with other pants. You push me to try things I wouldn’t have tried had I worn a skirt or those revealing Daisy Dukes. You made me feel special, like I’m the only one who’ll look good wearing pants. It may not have been true but that security, that acceptance, that love was enough to make me happy.

You made me really happy.

Time came when you became my go to bottoms, my favorite. I’d wear you when I had a championship debate round or some big speech. If I could I would even pack you to Cambodia with me but you knew why I couldn’t. Sometimes, I find myself crying to you (sorry for those tear marks on your already aging skin) and telling you of stories I never had the courage of telling anybody else. I’ve dreamt of the day you’d talk to me too and narrate to me your own tales but that never happened. Not one tear was shed, not one honest, emotional story was told. That was not your thing.

But still I’m grateful you were there.

As the days turned into months and into years, my dependence has made us both wary. I’ve worn you too often that white blots from too much washing are visible from all over your once dark fabric. There are small rips that threaten to grow larger if I wore you even once more.

I do not wish to hurt you or destroy you so this must be it. This must be where we part ways.

I was once told that friendships that do not last were never real anyway. I beg to differ. What we had was real. A friendship which does not last is not necessarily a failed one but one where there’s a mutual recognition that even good chapters come to an end. Do not get me wrong. It pains me deeply to do this for you took a place in my heart that no one else will be able to fill, not even limited edition Ralph Lauren Jeans. You made me better, happier and for that I will forever love you.

We both know it will come to this but I love you to much to put you in the give away pile without saying a proper good bye. This is it. I’ll pray for your happiness every day. I’ll ask the Lord to lead you to a new friend who might do wonders for those rips, the ones which I’ve tried to but cannot fix. Everyday, until I forget, I’ll dream of those days when we were once really happy together.

I will miss you.

 

With all the love I can muster,

ME

*Because I’m a wimp, the best I could do was address this to my jeans but I know you know better for you taught me metaphors better than anyone.