What not...

This letter is for the person who is to join me on whatever journey that is to come:

Dear, you asked me yesterday who am I and frankly speaking, I really have no idea. I admit that I did answer a very silly answer. But if you have been reading, you would have known that I have no clue to who am I. I know I am H, 21 years old, trying to figure things out on her own. I know that for the past two weeks, I have drifted apart. I know that I no longer enjoy people's company and I would love to be alone. I know that I am not depressed, but that I am confused.

Dear, I sometimes wonder, is it really important to have a modal answer to: Who am I? Cannot we just discover it along the way? Why box me in? I used to be angry that I didn't know me. Hell, I started this blog in order to help me with my findings. Yet, I have came at peace with me not knowing. I am the most curious person on planet Earth. I admit that. I also admit how much I abhor surprises, except for not knowing what will happen tomorrow. That type of surprises does not really pisses me off. You want to know why? Because I know that no matter what, I will wake up to a text from you saying: “Good morning” and it would make me smile. I know that when I see you, I feel calm no matter how agitated I am. I also know that I am very stupid when it comes to me showing or expressing emotions; that I go through hell to say what I want to say out loud; because I am not used to it. But you know what? It is worth it. That smile on your face makes my struggle worth it. But just so we are clear, please do not think of this as a habit or a ritual. I would go eat fish than to do that again.

At times, I am scared of the future. I am used to making long term plans, regardless the fact that they work or not. But I do them. They make me feel more organized and they are pretty to look at. I cannot plan things with you, yet. I am still waiting till I can. You have no idea how many blue prints I have on my mind now. The amounts of endless ideas fighting for survival inside my head are to the roof. They sometimes scare me at night. I have insecurities I cannot share with you for fear you might run away when you hear them, and you know what is even worse, than you hearing them? That when you do, you would not understand me.

I love my keyboard because he understands what I want to say exactly. I have always joked around saying that I speak with my fingers better than my tongue. When I use my fingers, words flow, my logic is clear and you cannot find a flaw in it. When I speak – dear God help whoever is listening- I share too much information. Information I didn't want that person to know. The look I get is even worse, if I talk about my life with my family and that wretched look of pity and sorrow that comes up when I talk about my brother, I feel like wanting to scratch the looker's eyes out. I have come to terms with the fact that not everybody wants me or loves me. Your sympathy is pointless. I am okay. I cried back then, but I am okay now. I like to consider living with him, a real piece of work; like a roommate who is there because he can afford the rent.

The keyboard is not beautiful because he has what we all wish for: A backspace and a delete button. No he is beautiful because of his music. I love how the keys sound under the tips of my fingers. Each letter has its own note. They can be sometimes up beat and fun and other times melancholy and lonely. They understand and reflect my mood. They appreciate me more than everything.

A very uncharacteristic poem written by yours truly: 

Chocolates and keyboards and good books too,

My final Utopia has finally come true.

With Waltz and tulips and sunshine hues,

They twirl around and chase away the blues.

A good looking prince,

Who makes them wince,

Chases away demons, goblins and even fish fins,

Who comes and bows with a shy glance,

Stretching an arm and praying for a dance.

My beautiful prince, calm and steady,

Surprises me with a teddy.

A fun silly poem to be written,

For a dear darling who's made me so smitten.

Pink cotton candy and white marshmallows,

With caramel ice-cream to tie the knot.

To live for a while in contentment and joy,

To chase away sorrow and smile, oh so coy.

Rhymes are fun,

But to end such one, clouds have to be gone!

Peace out! H!

?

Ever woke up feeling shallow and naive? Ever felt that no matter how many years you spend observing, contemplating, writing, and creating are never enough? I am not talking about knowledge. I am talking about that vast emptiness that seems to expand the closer you get. You know that kind of black hole. It does not suck the life at of you; it does not make you greedy. It makes knowledge empty.

Imagine this, you are in the greatest library ever; with the world's lost treasures, whatever subject you want you have it presented to you with a blink of an eye. You read, you go deep, you do your best to sink, yet you remain floating. You want to be fully immersed in the book, but not a chance. You keep reading waiting for the moment to finally come when you are unified with the book. You wait, you wait. Connection lost. You daydream. You are reading about Feminism and you are thinking of Sesame's Street and Kermit the Frog. You read literature, you try to enjoy it, to feel indulged, yet pages fly past your eyes and all you could think of is when will it end, when will I reach the climax? Depressing, sad, and downright unjust. You feel robbed of the one thing you have treasured the most. The gift of reading, of travelling everywhere any time. Trashy novels excite you more than deep well written literature. You lack suspense and patience. You lack imagination. You cannot visualize the protagonist; you cannot fantasize about him; you cannot speak to him. He refuses to come to life, to talk to you through the pages. He refuses to tell you his secrets. He is there, but invisible. He is the ultimate passive oxymoron. He is not taunting, nor is he ignoring. He just stares at you; page after page. You hear appraisal from him and his marvellous psyche and you are envious. Why cannot I participate? Why cannot I lift the dead? Frustration. You are dying to end the wretched novel.

It’s done, no more Jean, no more perfumes, no more scents lurking. He is dead, you are neutral. You cannot find it in you to be happy, vengeful, sad, or mournful. Nothing. You simply close the novel, and that is it.

You create excuses saying, you were not in the mood, but you know better. It was nothing; you felt nothing you wanted nothing. You could not even pretend to be revolted by his deeds; no you simply closed the novel. You did not give it a side glance. It did not exist. It never happened. Two weeks of reading and nothing. You doubt yourself and your ability to enjoy your one true love. Is life sucking it out of you? Has it been that long since you last read something that you forgot the sensation? Answerless questions and you remain void of anything. As emptiness wraps you in her cloak, you bow down and the scene ends.