I don't speak a lot. But my lips are usually parted. Not because I'm lost somewhere but because there are so many things I wish to say but don't. Mama says don't speak of the uncertainties, doubts and worries lest they come true. I don't do it for her. I do it because I believe what she says is true. Sometimes, the darnest things really do come true, courtesy of our mindless mouths.
To love is to let go. And when I say let go, I mean not just the person or thing you're in love with, but also the flowery love that blooms and wilts, blooms and wilts, and blooms only to wilt again. And the memories you hold onto so tightly that it's leaving little crescent nail marks on your palm. And the balloons of hope you're hanging onto, honey they won't float you up high in the sky. And the bottled up grief, let it condense and rain down loud and heavy, followed by a strong gust of wind as you breathe in and calm the downpour. You do that.
When you see me, I stand with my arms crossed against my chest. That's because I never know what to do with my hands and where to put them. I hate waiting. I hate it because it makes me anxious and twist my fingers into positions they can endure right before I can fracture them. I tap my foot faster than the needle for seconds on the clock.
I don't have anxiety but I eat when I'm nervous. So I'm living off bubble gums and mints because I need to chew at something and not my nails. I eat a lot. I eat even after I'm full, hoping it would fill the void in me just like my stomach.
I hate not being able to write. I wasn't able to write because I was sad. But I don't like to write sad things. They make everyone sad. So I wait till the wounds are old, then I pick up my needle and thread it with metaphors and pretty words and suture my way. In and out. In and out. Knot it shut and shape it like a curved smile.
I'm just as indecisive like I was yesterday. I hate comparison and the idea of choosing. I hate the word 'than' so I replace it with 'and'. See, the happiness of being chosen is far less than the sorrow of being not.
Writing is a lot like appearances. You can't tell the truths from the lies and the lies from the truths. I paint them all from the same palette, different colours. Mix both of them nice and clean beyond your comprehension. I guess, that's beautiful. Hideous yet revealing, confusing yet intriguing.
When I get my own house, I'm going to carpet the floor, so I don't slip and fall. Into people's traps and arms and the marbled floor.
Do you know what it's like to fall into bed and sleep like there's no tomorrow? Yeah, I knew it too.
