I had feared the day where my fingers would tap incessantly on the keyboard, admitting a faint-hearted feeling I had wished I kept to myself. But here I am, again, avowing, as a writer would, because words are smothering me.
My treasured readers, you haven’t the slightest of clue what if feels like developing feelings for a child of spring. I try to paper over this harmless craze, except dwellers took notice of me snipping and sniffing oleanders mid-autumn, in spite of their virulent toxins. My cheeks flush in primrose, baring me from every shameful secret my blushes covertly told.
Earlier today, a grasshopper attuned to my heart’s symphony and sprang atop my head, as if craving to hear me speak more of him; and I hailed its notion because my heart would not stop sprouting timid words. I had a music box for a heart.
Loving him is so chaste that every time I lied down to a siesta, my hands would only yearn for his delicate grip, and nothing more. The sound of his name buries my timidity in flowerbeds and plants lilacs in the crevices of my inky-blotched fingers.
I am reading poetry mid October and pressing morning glories in my poetry books; his flowery touch has made springtime eternal.
“Why do you write like a kid?” Maybe because I am one? When I write of love, in my book it is always as innocent as my words portray it. I express love as that old-school admiration: silent glances from afar, love postcards, and picnics on hilltops. It’s running together in sunflower fields and carving our initials on ancient oak trees.
I write what I know I will never experience; daydreams aside, by the time I fall in love, I’ll be too old for my childish wishes. I write like a kid because I don’t want to objectify my muse; I don’t want to describe his physique. In my script, he’s not tall and handsome. His face is pudgy, he wears the same clothes he wore in his 20s, and he doesn’t know how Twitter polls work.
I write like a kid because I’m tired of romance novels being too physical for my liking. I write like a pre-teen because I want you to view this life from my rainbow-tinted glasses where chivalry is not dead and love blooms in all the colors of the spectrum.
I write like a child because my entire life is a G-rated, young adult fiction, where everything is gradual, and you have to read at least a hundred pages before the characters muster the courage to kiss. Because in my world, blushes are eternal and innocence doesn’t withdraw at any age.
This whole adult world dismantles my love for the sweet, childish days where daisies are the token of a timid love between two shy humans. I write like a child because I want you to live in spring all year long, to be enveloped by April for eternity, even when I am gone.
To the Gemini muse that I’ve written to for 5 years,
You’re undoubtedly still quite the charming man, incessantly inspiring my empty head to leak words I was too shy to admit. Because of you, many have called me a writer, when both you and I know that I am far off from that noble title.
I’ve written so much to the point that I wanted my words to come alive, and not just fabricate our make-believe rendezvous. I wanted all to be real; I wanted you here, in flesh and bones, to show everyone that this immaculate human is a kind, living, breathing thing.
I’ve dived into supernal worlds of what ifs, and you ceased to become just a writing aid; my love, I urged for you with haste, but what haste is that if it’s been five years, and not a shard of a word moved a cell in you.
Come and run your fingers through the endless pages of my pleas; oh how desperate I was, filling up journals and journals just imploring you to find me. I counted the days, ah so gullible; I’ve begged the earth to rewrite its fate for I swear you were meant for me.
Five years, you insensitive human. Five years and what they’d compliment on, thinking it’s just a heart dump is actual frantic calls, yet I would not lie, I’d still bust this spacious heart open and write until your unresponsive organ feels bad for me.
But until then, I’d like to inform you that I have found a new muse, and your services are not needed. (But God knows I would still rush into your arms lest you came).
It’s mid April, and all I’ve engulfed were whirls of autumnal winds, winds so familiar yet out of place. This is not your season, yet somehow you still manage to storm the earth, one unexpected sandstorm at a time.
My readers know it: I’ve always sworn by autumn, and its painful gush against brick walls. My darling, let me have this. Allow me this spring, colorful still. I am yet to bear your azure skies.
A waft of feeling crept into the soft hues of April. Love, is that you again? I’d honor your heavy emotions in a painstaking embrace lest it led anywhere, but we both know they’re misplaced in this case. What do those feelings serve me; nothing but a severe heartburn. For I have admired the falsehood of you; don’t we writers do that too? We’re darn good storytellers, permitting the slightest of inspiration to fool you, and fool ourselves into believing our hyperbole is close to reality. But the problem is that: the reason behind those feelings is void. I am quick to fall in love, and in this case, my muse is someone I have never seen eye to eye. Oh Love, you gave me farfetched whims over a soul I glamorized in my head. And I keep writing to him like a fool every night, thinking words can force his innocent feet here. April, what have you done to my poor soul?
They say pain is the best virtue a writer could ever get out of life. With agony, come rain showers of heartfelt emotions, ready to ink blank sheets on a vagabond’s journal. The writer sways to somber melodies, fabricating and blossoming black roses in the gaps between his fingers, as he writes and jams his fingertips against the pen until he bleeds a dark prose.
And now the darkest shade of gray is present within his core, the only beam that interrupts his chain of thought is the harsh office lamp, glistening above his head. So there he was, alone in this world, suffering wrecked relationships, and the only companion he has to help him survive the lonesome night is a pen that swore to never leave his sight.
The written agony—unfelt and covert in an enclosed leather journal, pulsating harmoniously with his heartbeats—now testifies a point in time only his youth grieved. And it remains an unknown phase, up until a stranger finds the notebook—amid the debris—an ancient memory, craving to be read.
This virtue bestowed upon a forlorn writer not only beautifies his verses with monochromatic hues, but also carries the pain to the next writer. Now I grieve, and you grieve, and together we write our ache away.
So I may have found a muse who’s been keeping me company. At first, his sight triggered a stormy rush of new words, causing my brittle soul to flush in reds and pinks. Every cell in me gradually softened, and my feet started tingling with inspiration to dance again.
All of a sudden, the typing on the keyboard would not end, interrupted by blushed smiles and sighs. I pause mid-writing to stare at the blank wall in front of me, and I look back to my notepad that’s mindlessly suffused with heart doodles all over your name.
And now this ceased to be just a writer’s companion on wordless nights because the heart is unfortunately entrapped. My muse, you’re too perilous for my frail being to handle. I am too scared to process the abrupt collision that is you. I know you’re supposed to pull me out of my miserable rut, to spur poems out of my mediocrity, but I am too fearful.
I am frightened by how swiftly I’ve gotten accustomed to your ghostly stops. I am overwhelmed by my sudden craze to pour more and more words to describe a beauty I have yet to see.
My muse, you do realize that there’s no face behind those emotions, right? So why on earth am I drawn to a human I have never met? Help my emptiness spill on my white canvasses, but when the duty is over, I beg you to leave. I fear I may have loved your company too much.