Maybe the sun doesn't shine on the other side, maybe it's the moon that does (even stronger, I guess). Maybe it's not words that you need but the impact of silence on your soul and heart to waken you. Maybe it's not books or novels or biographies or memoirs that your eyes want to read, maybe it's the feelings they carry and the lessons they conceal. Maybe it's the weakness that had held you back all this time, not the times that you thought were strong and could carry mountains on your shoulders. Maybe you need the waves of summer not the rains of winter, the dawn of spring not the dusk of autumn. Maybe your words were all out in the wrong places and it's taking you forever now to right what went wrong and put every word in its right place, time and to the right person. Maybe all what a mother said once was right; slow down, take it easy, stop overthinking, it will kill you. Maybe you need more dreams in sleep than dreams in waking. Maybe it's the waking that hurts not the staying awake. Maybe, just maybe, you could kill every if only you have said inside and out, because it's never about that. Maybe you need a shoulder. Maybe you need a please-don't-let-the-world-get-to-you hug. Maybe you need words. Maybe you need silence. Maybe you need love. Or comfort. Or a prayer. Or a bit of faith. Maybe all of this is just you inside of me, or me inside of you. Maybe it's your love that did this. Or hatred or non-love or whatever you'd call it. Or maybe it's everything and it's nothing.
Maybe I just don't know. I don't.


Written here. Written now. Written for you and written for me, written for everyone who feels like this or will or has felt like this even once in their lifetime. May it never happen again.

You remember how we sat with chairs across of each other and opened our unfinished books to read them like finishing a chapter of our lives? You know how you comforted yourself and sat cross-legged, holding your book too tight and giving the impression that you'd cry your heart out if someone stole it, like a precious diamond? You had some kind of a dazzling smile that I had never seen before, and I wondered that day, I wondered too much that I thought I asked myself aloud, do books do this? Do books make us this beautiful? I can see you like I'm seeing a character I'm reading that has suddenly come to life, incarnated with all your beautiful features and smiles and laughter, only with a different name. I get back to my book so fast I think you see my failed attempt at sneaking. Every two minutes I finish a paragraph I think it has you in it somehow, the smile or the words maybe. Sometimes I come across a word you love like "infinity" or your favorite purple color or even your favorite flower. I once read that the universe conspires to make everything you really want, happen, only now I do believe it does.

Is it books that made me believe? Or loving you that made my heart biased to you? Is it just a smile or a word or a favorite color that makes me think this is for me? Or am I only being a fool by seeing you without seeing you? You'd think I'm too tugged in my book that I forget you, but instead I'm reading this book for you, to you, about you, and with you.

Source

In reply to the previous prose. This is all in my head so don't worry :)

I need to write you in the most cliché words because running away from you always takes me back to you. Let me craft the idea of you like I'm portraying my favorite novel character. You'd be reading under a dim light, so tugged in your book I'd get jealous of the characters inside, they're so lucky to be flying freely inside your imagination while I'm only watching you from a two-meter space that kills me to get closer. I wish I could read with you to share the same thoughts (I wish we'd be one). I pretend to be busy with my book too but I find that every character reminds me of you, even if you're not really similar, they just invoke you in some mysterious ways. I flip through each page in a speck of a second while stealing a look at you from the corner of my eyes. I start to be so good at this you barely notice me. And I barely notice myself when you lean closer to the book and I melt as if you're drawing me in one of your characters too.  You make me love books and the words inside them, because they talk about you. I know they do, they tell me that I love you, not as cliché as I write it, but in the warmest, deepest, calmest words I could ever read. I love you, like the books say it. And I'll find a better way to say it one day.

Written for you.
4th of Jan. 8:23 PM.