Do you ever stop once in a while and listen to what the voices in your head are saying?
Do you take a moment to actually mind what they say?
How much is that affecting your life? And more importantly,
How is that working out for you?
Remember when, six years ago, you promised yourself that you'll go back there again someday; to the place under the same tree that gave you shade the when the summer sun got too warm and bright. Today, you are a guest. One day, you are the host, you said to yourself. You were so determined and you knew exactly the steps you were going to take to get you there. Back then, you might be naive; but you had a vision, and your mission isn't something that you have to spend nights in solitude thinking of.
Oh, look at you now. Someone asked you, "What do you plan to do with your life?" and you were fuzzed and you had to lie with something as silly as 'I have something, but I can't tell you now.'
You were listening to the sad, sad song about someone who was obsessed with the clarinet teacher's daughter and it brought you to one of the most painful part of your past, and you cried in silence, and you wish you could've stopped yourself but instead you cried harder, and you felt you were alone beneath the sad, starry sky, and you wonder why a starry sky could make you feel so sad but you decided to stop asking yourself questions--especially ones you don't have the answers to. He's gone, you told yourself. And he probably doesn't care that I've been gone, too.
What are you doing with your life? Seriously, what?
I always promised myself that this is it. This is the last time I would write about you. This is the last few words I would ever produce about you--it may not be much, but it's millions compared to the zero words that you ever gave me. But we never lied to anyone more than we lied to ourselves. Of course I will break my promise again. Of course I'm about to do it again now.
It's such a beautiful night outside. I don't live in a place where stars are fond of showing up before midnight, so when they do, it almost makes me cry. I like walking home alone at night--it's soothing, calming, and it's the only time of the day where I don't have to listen to anyone other than the voices inside my head. It's when I'm being most of myself. And I can't find a bigger happiness than that, even if it usually ends up with me in tears.
I have a feeling that I have never stopped writing because I believe I will find you through my writings. I firmly understand that this is me, making an effort so that you can reach me out... so that you can find me. Because the world has too many turns and blocks, it's so easy to get lost even when we're not hiding.
I promised, through one of my writings, that I will find you in the seventh winter we'd spent apart. Pretty soon, it will be the sixth. Whether or not I'll find you in the seventh winter is still a mystery. The bigger possibility is, obviously, I won't. But sometimes my writings work like magic; they probably don't come true, but they hit close to home. I know that writing about that here now will probably jinx it, but... it's too beautiful a night with the sky full of stars that guide me home not to be thinking of you.
I will always miss you. I will always remember you: in the darkest of night, through a song, through a magical starry night, through a glimpse of memory that took me back in time. You have never been far; and my memory of you is now mixed up with the things that probably never happened--but lives dearly in my memory anyway.
Treasured memory is a piece of life that shall never be gone. I'd like to believe that you are so deeply engraved in my heart that even though one day life takes away my memory, they can never take the ones about you anywhere. Because you're staying here. Because it's not me not moving on in my life. It's me--holding on to hope, even in the absence of it.
