The version of you that I’ve learned to love still sticks to my throat—stubborn phlegm that lately pushes me to the verge of breathlessness; an amalgam of blissful memories, perfect, pristine, and relentless, defying the continuous downpour of rain spattering against the roof and windows of this lonely house. And now that I have the chance to finally unveil who you really are, far away from the ghosts of our past, I suddenly found myself scared. I am not ready to let go of such beauty.
I tried to find the answers as I stared lazily unto the wet night. A cup of coffee was my company and some alternative music to color the monotonous crackling sounds of water against everything. The truth slowly revealed itself: I am terrified to know you because you might not be the person I’ve always imagined you to be. I am selfish for what my mind thinks but that picture of you is all I’ve got—my only hope to find a way back. Your willingness to reach out awakened a hope, once in a deep slumber; a hope to pick up the threads of an old life that I am longing for so much that it feels almost an ache. And now as I stroll on this new path for us I am afraid that the thread would grow thin still and eventually break.
People say that sometimes, one needs to fool himself into believing things that aren’t real, especially when those things are his only means to be saved. I am not sure what complicated emotion lurks inside my diseased heart. I do not know if it’s love or a twisted form of fanaticism. But love usually thrives in the unknown and in the uncertain. I guess I’ll just have to believe that it is real—my sole anchor and means of salvation to escape away from a fate I do not wish to suffer. I need to believe that it can save me from myself, which is slowly turning into something far away from the person that I’ve always wanted to be. These are those moments where decisions are proven insufficient. It takes a mind to decide but it requires a heart to choose. Unfortunately, I have a weak one.
The rain slowly hushed eventually muting the noises it was making against tin roofs. And when it finally ended in silence, I was still there, elbows on my knees, hands under my face. On my side was a cup that now laid empty, hollow, waiting to be filled. Strangely, it felt like sitting with myself. The perfect marriage of the lack of light and the cold hums of the evening air was strangely elating despite of my melancholic thoughts and Switchfoot’s nostalgic lullabies. The emotion invoked words from nowhere, suddenly arranging themselves on a blank piece of paper. Half-way through it, a sad thought walked past like a rude passerby:
When we finally meet, I might not recognize her anymore. To finally look at her as friend will take some time. The phlegm must be coughed out—which I have proven is as stubborn as myself.