Sincerely, The girl who left words Unsaid

20. Oceans_Jacob Lee

There are thoughts and there isn't a maze more complicated than the one inside your head and there isn't a fear scarier than being caught in the labyrinth of your own thoughts. Sometimes you end up thinking about what you even are seeking that has consumed the whole of your thought and why.

You try to sketch it down, write it down on every bit of paper you find. In the start you keep these papers stocked up and piled but later you burn them down because this thing must be best left unsaid.

Every time that he saw an old couple walking near the seashore he couldn't help admiring them. It's heartwarming even in the raining bliss of seeing them walk deeply engrossed in themselves first and then comes their connectivity with the sea, sand, breeze, trees, rain, sunset, and of course, the street food. The monsoons have finally braced the mortals and it's impossible to hold him inside four walls. He would wait for the rains to get heavier, the street lamps coming to life and a sky draped a dark grey blanket around, and as soon as these conditions would fulfill he would blast out of his home like a cannonball. 

It has been three months since his college exams were done and all he did waited for things to happen and if he found something fascinating he would sketch it or just get a random book to pass time. And for him, these three months were something he would die twice to just erase it even once. For him, it almost felt like being woken up to the bitter reality of the most beautiful dream. A dream where she was real but now all his nights were a pain suffering from his nightmares that he scribbled down the moment he woke up, just to not forget them. All his nightmares were the same. They were about losing her.

He decided to write it down. The reason was verysimple. He wanted to remember her. He wanted her to be infinite. There arecertain stories that need to be heard by everyone, and she was someone who wasa story, and inspiration or maybe a reason every writer seeks. And it all madesense to him. every book that he had read where the character is all lost andin the madness of a fine city, sometimes have no money to pay rent of anapartment on a filthy street and sometimes too tired of the glitter and glamour,social gatherings, and blabbering over a free wine, either they have everythingor lost everything, they are empty inside and searching meaning and purpose.They end up going far off place, take their chances and meet someone, thingshappen and the story evolves. The lost find solace. And maybe, Jenny wassomeone whom he believed blindly to be the one to set him free. His faith inher was unshakable, unbreakable, and even unreal to exist.

That night from the attic he found his grandfather's old typewriter. It smelledvintage, the keys were a bit hard and rusted, the time had dried the ink but the feeldidn't fade, the dust seemed like stardust which when wiped off with a singlestroke of thumb revealed the gold name on the ebony skin 'BLAKE.' Carrying itcarefully to his desk that had his diary, pen, a table lamp and warm cup ofcoffee. He cleaned the typewriter inserted a page in the slot and as he leanedforward bringing his long bony fingers close to the keys, he almost frozemidair and went backward slowly sighing. Too much drama but when it came downto actually doing it, he wrote not a single word.

He was obsessed with perfectness. He wanted things to be perfect because thosefew things always matter to him the most. He knew for a fact that if he doesmanage to write the story down it has to be flawless in every aspect. A story,in reality, can only be written once. That's it. If it's just one shot, hedidn't see why he shouldn't leave every stone unturned. He had his eyes closed.He didn't need music today, he could hear the aria of her voice. He didn't needto smoke, her scent was suddenly filled in like a wildfire in the aroma of theroom. He didn't need to drink alcohol and say the words in an excuse of beingdrunk, he was high on her memory. He remembered everything about her.

Some say holding onto your past is a reason why you never are satisfied in yourpresent and the future which anyway was uncertain, suffers a severe threat ofbeing messed up. True, perhaps. But, here is a thought. If you know that whatyou do today will eventually be a memory, a past, why don't you make the timecount? Why is it that you stand there like you have lost words and given up onsomeone? Why is it that somedays you tell them everything and wear your heart onyour sleeve but when they get used to your words, you have nothing to say ortalk? Why is it that most of the stories revolve around distance when peopledon't value people? When you have a chance to spend the time you walk away makingexcuses? You might be busy but what about the priorities? You let go of thepresent, wait for it to become the past, and then hold on to it regretting.Regretting not saying the things that should have been saying. Shane never wantedthis certain regret, because he had understood one thing that the weight of thethings that are left unsaid was too much for him to carry on. He was weak. Whatis left unsaid, remains unsaid forever.

He considered himself lucky that moment because, at that moment, the past thathe was holding onto was beautiful. Sometimes being unaware of the truth isn'tthat bad.

Deep down his memory lane, he wanted to remember a memory of her that was verypowerful. A memory where she was at her best, smiling and happiest. He thoughtof the first time he met her, the auditorium, the keybosh, everything wasamazing but not something he was looking for at that moment. He closed hiseyes, a sigh of relief, heavy heart, and heavy breathing. There it was, it hadto be her birthday.