I've been contemplating on tearing my old notebook apart, going back and forth the last few days, weighing how much I would probably regret doing so. And then I finally decided to, but convinced myself to take one last peek, confident that whatever I
will read, I will want to throw away. I've been that miserable. But I opened the notebook to this:
Lately, I've been reading too many love letters, and I could almost feel a dagger thrusting through my heart - not because of the lack of someone to write a letter to, but because of the lack of the same beautiful words. I know I could never write the same, because I don't feel the same.
That made absolutely zero sense. But hopefully, this doodle can sum up exactly what I'm feeling.
I took the Chic-Lit (Vince's Life: The Wedding) never expecting to put it down. Besides, I had so little to read and so much time to do it. I also didn't want to put it down simply because I wouldn't be able to resist not knowing if Vince - the Edward Cullen of my teeny, boppy Filipino generation - would end up with the love of his life. And so I didn't. I have a huge, pretty detrimental, unhealthy penchant for happy ever afters. The ones where sadness is just a cliche segue to the much coveted perfect ending. I think it's not as bad as most thinks it is. Reading Vince's life, I dazed off to my own literary dream; between the pages and my head were words suddenly materializing as if I had somebody I could write about.
If I had, I think I could laud him that way. I know I could laud him that way. I could, just as this fictional Vince Teves, make the world root for our love, or at least, root myself in the world's behalf just as long as somebody is believing. I have metaphors, I have symbols, I have anecdotes squatting in the better part of my head, rolling in circles, searching for some meaning, because without somebody, the words would've failed. I would've failed. And I don't wanna fail.
The greatest love letters I've ever read was those from people I personally know, those whose love I've witnessed and therefore know that their words truly had meaning. Those whom I know didn't fail.
But I could fail. I could feel the words dying, and what's really sad about it, is that I'm weeping for the loss of my story, when I hadn't even had the person I could share the story with.
I think I'm gonna keep my notebook for a little while longer.