I remember getting a Suicune from a Pokemon Booster pack when I was a kid. I remember getting a Mewtwo EX on another pack.
Shit was real back then.
Flash-forward; I stop buying Pokemon Booster Packs. Now I buy books, a few of them are quite rare among collectors, but I'm not much of a hunter, just a determined reader.
I also enjoy collecting stuff that catches my eyes' attention. I've found pieces of woods and stones. Seashells and fallen feathers I made into bookmarks or souvenirs, I picked them up as mementos along the way. I find these things I accumulated over time as something to do with life. Not that I know what to do in life, yet, however, you'll never know what you're gonna get, unless you stop and see what's worth keeping.
I found poetry while picking up my shattered pride and a broken heart. I found love in words and language while collecting back pieces of peace I had to piece back together; it wasn't the same and I learned that Gam Gajah works on almost anything except feelings. I learned that behind a microphone you could spit out your hurt when you don't know how to swallow; when what you bit was bigger than the things you could chew on; honesty was always bigger and it takes a man to admit his regrets and mistakes and shortcomings and fears
and I'm still just a boy.
Picking up whatever my eyes can catch on, latching to perseverance like it's a lifeline made with broken poetical devises; I devised a plan to write as much poems I could get my hands on. So I wrote as much as I could, as if words were fallen feathers, magic seashells, precious gemstones disguised as river stones , wooden swords carved from branches, old books as older than my parents, booster packs full of legendary pokemons--all of that, just waiting to be a poem. I've found poems that brought me places. I've kept some that filled the empty spaces. I've heard enough poetry that a few of them sounded more like the beginning of something beautiful, like friendship, greatness or love...especially love...rather than just being another reading.
I find those particular pieces rare. You'll never know what you just might get, every time you hear one.I heard her poem. She heard mine. There were no sparks, love-at-first-sight. We went with our lives collecting time that passes by; until one day I stumbled myself on Facebook Messenger. I picked up part courage, part luck, and a small piece of hope, asking for her number. We began contacting each other. Then somehow started to trade collections of life stories. We liked what we exchanged hands.
and in that rare moment
when you feel right both in your head and heart. when those two tells you to just "go for it, you dummy!" when the fighting stops; logic and feelings became siblings conjoined at birth, separated throughout phases in life and finally reunited, because you reminded them; reminded me what was right when there's nothing left.
These rare instances where you cannot explain or articulate it well enough that even poetry could not find the right metaphors, imagery to capture Kodak perfect moments of forevers. And prose are just poor excuses to justify the meaning as if you need the validation saying "this is not a dream."
that rarity in life, my dearest, was when I first sent you that message, asking for your number
- you said yes
and at that moment, I knew I wouldn't get any luckier than that.
