If I start talking to you now, would you still hear me?
I've always believed in this silly notion that even after a person leaves, they'll still hear you because part of them stays in places where they frequent.
Once when I was little, my mom went to the market. No one was home but me and my older brother, but he was outside playing in the street with his friends while I was watching Saturday morning cartoons. When I got hungry, I went to the kitchen to look for something to eat. I knew where Mom hid the cookies—the cupboard above the refrigerator. It was the highest one in the room; the one where no kid could reach. Or at least, that's what my mother thought. I climbed over the counter, stood on two stools stacked on top of each other, and did my best to reach the cupboard handle with my short six-year-old arms. As soon as I reached it, a stool slipped under me. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor, wailing in pain.
I kept crying for my mom. It was the first time I realized how hard it would be to be alone. No one would be there for you if you were hurt. No one would comfort you when you cry. I knew Mom wouldn't hear me, but I kept sobbing out loud nonetheless, in hopes that my brother would at least hear me.
After God knows how long, the door clicked and I heard footsteps rushing to the kitchen and my name being called out. I could barely recognize my mom's face through my tears, but I know it was her just by the sound of her voice, the way she cradled me in her arms, and the safety I felt to know that she'll always be there when I needed her.
Can I tell you a secret? I wanted you to feel that way with me, too.
I thought perhaps if I visited you every day after class, you'd get the idea. I never believed these kinds of things must be said. Actions speak louder than words after all, right? I wasn't good with words anyway. The only time I believed in myself was when you checked my Lit paper, and you made a little note on the side, saying how good I was and that maybe I should consider being an author instead of a journalist. I took that to heart, you know. But sometimes I wonder, am I really good with words? If I was, I would have told you what I always wanted to tell you.
By the way, I dreamt about you earlier.
You were flying, just like how I imagined you were able to do. I wanted to fly with you too. But after I jumped off the balcony, I remembered I didn't have wings. My body didn't resist gravity pulling me back. I was human; I wasn't meant to fly—at least, not yet. I didn't feel any fear at all. I thought perhaps I need to fall before I learned how to fly.
I will never find out. The new History of Journalism professor woke me up too soon.
Sorry for sleeping in class. I remember how you scolded me when I dozed off in the middle of lecture. You stood in front of my desk, tapped me on the shoulder, and mockingly called my name. Then, I raised my head to find your scowling face looking down at me while the rest of the class chuckles. It was the first and last time I slept in that class. Before, it was because I was terrified of you. Later on, things became . . . different.
Today was the second day I slept in class. I immediately sat up straight when Mr. Felipe called me, ready for the sermon. The old balding man glared at me behind his small round glasses, but he only made me explain an article from the textbook before letting me off.
I barely remembered what happened the whole day. If there was one thing I noticed, people seemed to avoid talking to me, even if they kept sticking to me everywhere I go. It was like people felt the need that I shouldn’t be kept alone while roaming around campus. It's not like I minded. I didn't feel like talking anyway. I would rather wait until I can meet up with my high school friends; they understand me more than anyone I've ever met in college. But I still can't help but feel like I may have missed a chance; that I may just have been stuck with the wrong people because I was too much of a coward to do anything about it.
After school ended, I went to the university's main library. I had been coming to this place a lot recently, mostly for research and doing paperwork. I had no business here today; I only felt like coming to the place where you frequently go to at the end of the day (as if I'd find you there).
I picked up books on journalism ethics and public service. I decided I might as well gather more information for our thesis while I'm here. I must have been so focused on what I was doing that when someone dropped a pile of books on the large wooden table I was working on, it nearly made me squeal in the silent halls.
A giggling Kaitlin laid her bag on the chair beside me. She was the first one to look at me straight in the eye today.
"Are you coming with us?" she said. I almost forgot some of my classmates were meeting up after school at the new cafe that opened down the block.
"I'll catch up in a while," I replied, going back to my journals.
“Make it quick,” Kaitlin said in her usual snappy tone, picking up the tower of books she probably borrowed from the library and slung her bag over her shoulder. She hesitated for a moment before turning around. “And don’t think too much, okay?”
Despite the heavy load she was carrying, Kaitlin managed to dash out of the library after that. That was what she usually does when she says something that has even the slightest tone of sympathy. I just stared at the empty space where Kaitlin stood. I was too taken aback by her words, but more so by her expression.
Was I really in such a bad condition that even my most stoic friend would worry?
I was too distracted to work afterwards, but I had one more reason to linger around the library a little longer.
I returned the books I took and headed over to the Philosophy section, running my fingers through the books, trying to remind myself which one of those you read the most. I picked up the oldest copy of Friedrich Nietzsche’s The Gay Science, flipped through the pages to find Section 341:
What if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: 'This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more' Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: 'You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.'
I remembered the debates we had about Eternal Recurrence, how you said the concept was just as absurd as believing in an afterlife. I remembered my amusement of seeing you explain your love-hate relationship with Nietzsche’s philosophy, how you have that glint in your gaze when you talk about some of his works, and then end up brushing them off as if he was a lunatic.
My chest tightened as I imagined your face. Before I knew it tears landed on the dog-eared pages. This must be the feeling Nietzsche was talking about—das schwerste Gewicht, the heaviest burden. Would I be happy if I have to relive my life as I had? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I fervently hoped it was real. I just want to see your smile, hear your voice . . . admire you from afar all over again.
That was a stupid question, I know. I wouldn’t remember any of this anyway. Somehow, that didn’t make me feel any better.
I know everything sounds absurd. You were a realist, and I was the girl who was always up in the clouds of her imagination. I never agreed to that, but I didn't tell you why—because it was you who changed me. You were the one who opened up my eyes, introduced me to new worlds, and made me question things I used to believe in.
Yet here I am, writing letters to no one, planning to tuck them between the pages of boring books that no one has read in decades, having the craziest delusions that maybe—just maybe—they might get to you.
(To be continued...)
