Sunday

Chapter 1

Buy Me Literature

If there is something more disgusting than seeing people write the most forced dialogue, it is witnessing these writers brag about it. Do not get me wrong, I have applauded rookie writers and praised kids for emptying an alphabet only to compose the most horrid paragraphs they call literature. I have taught them what feels authentic to the mass public that does not care and has unfolded why the likes of Colleen Hoover grew famous despite both the structure and logic deficits in her works. But it does grow old, you know I hate lying.

I have grown hateful towards your kind. Believe me, It is not something to be proud of. But my condemnation of these petty writers who pride themselves on writing imitations of the Tumblr universe ultimately comes back to you. As if hating you is the only way to ease it. There is this notion that the only way to preserve what happened is to despise it enough that it becomes my second nature to remember. If I am certain of one thing in this life, no one can write you better the way I write you. That is a fact. Even Ocean Vhuong, a renowned poet, cannot write you the way I do or know you the way I can name you without ever having the chance to hold you up close.

See, I do not even think of you anymore. I have grown and figured there is more to the world than teenage hyper-fixations on love. It is not me who is writing this but the ghost of my younger inclination to overexplain. I am not interested if you passed it or not, I lost all my affection to stay sane. At the end of the day, we were young and romantics, it was an act, it was no more than a drug overdose. Nonetheless, why must the world watch over the romantics? They tend to attach themselves to their object of affection it becomes a prayer when they sin. If you seen Christians parroting banal platitudes, essentially burying Pura Luka Vega’s career, you would understand what I am trying to say. Hitler was an artist. We both were an artist, you were living it while I was merely a transcriptionist but an artist regardless.

I was in a deep sleep today and I woke up and figured you were still using the song as a username. I did not feel a pang, surely though, you can assume I have this deliberate ache telling me you should stop naming yourself after something I have given you. Not when you allowed other people to name you too, especially, not on my face. My narcissism cannot stand it and neither my reason.

This is not romantic. So buy me literature, show me your distasteful reading list. Give me a reason why you are not deserving. I have wasted my time finding all the precise weak points of your personality. I have justified my inability to love. I have done everything. The mass-produced literature you consume is the reason why we breed illogical lovers. Colleen Hoover does not understand love, you cannot find it in money or the emotional attendance. This industry is conditioning us to think that love is not supposed to be multifaceted.

Tell me about the female lead. What does she want to be? Does she dream? If these details feel like excess, you are not reading romance. You do not understand love and neither do I. What I know is that it is not the coffee order that matters or the fears or the ordeal of being openly stupid. It is respect for one's individuality enough for you to shrink your own ideals to see someone in their rawest nudity. Unfortunately, I do not know you like that.