I suddenly felt a stinging jolt. I sat up on my bed, surveyed the surrounding, thinking what happened. I tried reaching out in the dark feeling the sheets, checking the cold under-pillow. What if a snake bit me? Am I just wasting the last minutes, even seconds, of my insignificant little life fumbling through my bed? What if it was a pesky mosquito with that familiar virus strain? What if it was all a dream? That I was simply giving meaning to an ordinary circumstance of late night wake ups. I whispered a curse. Now I can’t sleep.
I tried to lay flat on my bed again, with a yellow sheet and a blue pillowcase, closed my eyes over and over again. But once you’re wakened up, it is doubly difficult sleeping again. Against all the revolt of my tired body, I sat up, stood, and flicked my light open. I rummaged for a pen and an old notebook on a table at the foot of my bed. Why not do something just to pass the time. Something I often do when I can’t sleep. Scribble.
Then, as I flipped open the pages of my battered notebook, I read the things I’ve written for the past days even months or years on end. What the hell! I had thoughts of doing some grammatical doublechecks on the things I’ve previously written but then thought otherwise. It is a welcome development that I for one no longer cared about what I wrote or tried to write. Yes, I get lost sometimes. Upon reaching a blank page, I took the cover off my pen, and made a dot on the upper right hand corner just to assure myself that the pen won’t leave me hanging after a few words have been written.
I suddenly felt that it was a hot evening, my shirt was sticking, and I felt the air was getting heavier. I decided to max-out my fan’s strength just to make it seem as if it was the most comfortable room, ever. It did help a bit; got me distracted from feeling the evening musk. I thought of what I could write.
The moon was a brilliant orb, peeking at my window, maybe this is the inspiration I need, or maybe not. Then, as if it was a planned correspondence, I thought of writing about you.
The days I spent with you were not ordinary days. I have them etched in my mind with permanence. If I could use the most permanent ink there is, I’d ink it on my being as well. I always thought, during those times we’re together, that it couldn’t get any better. You always prove me wrong. Every single time. Because you make the next plans better with your imagination, coupled with your laughter and puns, and spontaneity. We’re a happy bunch. Something I never thought I could still be. But, you know, you turned everything around. We danced a different beat and we’ve concocted the best damn symphony with our contrite laughter. We never cared about how people see us when we laugh our asses off or when we make fun of each other every outing. We had our own world and we’ve made it real.
I thought of how it was then, the guarded moments, when we’ve measured each other up as to how society thinks we are. But we’re just two kids, who found this encompassing happiness in each other’s company. I tried looking back, some months ago, when we first went out. It wasn’t the best impression of me. I was awkward, and had nothing good or interesting to say, so my recourse was poetry and the lame jokes I carried in my sleeve. You laughed at most of them, perhaps out of pity or because of how awkward I looked that it almost seemed funny. It wasn’t a perfect day, but it seemed it was a perfect moment to know what we’re made of. Skin and bones like everybody else.
What I’m pretty sure of then, there wouldn’t be a second time. After that fateful evening things will be pretty weird between us. It did a bit, with the awkward silence and conversational degeneration, but it didn’t escalate as I thought it would. And then the second movie came. We exchanged texts, swapped music. We had breakfast, lunch, and dinner every now and then. We even ventured into jogging around the oval which to our overwhelming surprise and dismay, surprised at the length we traversed and dismayed that at our tender age we failed to accomplish it in commissioned strides, all we had to do then was laugh at our trying, that although we gave our best, and failed horribly, our gentle screen to mask us from the eyes of those looking was our happiness at this at the start of an inevitable failure of our first jog. And what then did we do after? We ate. Because we got hungry laughing.
This has been the normal course of our days together which is not as often as I could’ve wanted. But these are unique experiences each and every time. I always long for the look in your eyes or the scent of your cologne. It marks up my days, the days when I’m with you.
I always long for the touch of your hand that, at times, I even feel my hand lacking when not locked with yours. I always, from time to time, seem to hear your laughter even though you are miles away, I think I’m beginning to be crazy, mad, but I don’t care, I long for your laughter just as much. The intensity never wanes. Every time I say “I miss you”, it is true each time, even more now than before.
So, yes, I was writing with a beat and rhythm I can’t hear, but when the heart remembers, it is always music. I had much to say, much to write, but the day was gently perking up. I closed my notebook because I know there are more memories to make and more time to spend with you.
This was how my scribble ended with a remembrance and a dream. And as I slowly closed my eyes, I had one prayer, that I dream of you and be with you that same moment.
(August 28, 2012 / 8:48 pm)
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