I’m not a Nicholas Sparks character that will read you a Notebook or letters written to a Dear John

Nobody is interested in your sorrow, unless you can make a joke or a poem out of it. Funnily, I don't seem to be angry, at least not yet. Funnily too, things run on quite nicely and evenly around here as long as I'm busy.

But bear in mind that love is not blind, it is retarded. What about lust? An optical illusion? OMG! I think I’m the one lost there. I don’t make sense anymore. Have you ever driven home and then wondered how you got there? That’s how much I’m lost. Suitcase of regrets. Briefcase of hope. That’s what I’m carrying around.

Recently one of my friend told me that my crime was that I loved a woman with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here I stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street. Perhaps they were right putting love into books. Perhaps it could not live anywhere else. Perhaps you were right Mr. Faulkner.

Time is short, and passing, in this world that’s all we’ve got. I’m twenty-six and I’m not, she knows, I hope, trying to pass on to her, bearded, distant, the blame for the shape my life has taken, denying responsibility.

That day when she offered me to come to her place, I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane. John Green – Looking for Alaska.

Tiffany’s ring was waiting in my bag. I was told they were the best for engagement. And I waited for her like a fool at the train station on my birthday. A birthday which has for guest solitude, anger and strangers. And I was left with no explanation and a ring waiting to fit in a finger… the best fingers she would say. But not good enough to build bridges. The silence wasn’t so bad, till I look at my hands and feel sad. Because the spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly.

I’m not a Nicholas Sparks character that will read you a Notebook or letters written to a Dear John, so don’t expect me to do such sacrifices again when you can’t even do a quarter of what I did. And I take comfort in knowing that even when things are being taken away from us, a new world waits, to be discovered, in an upside-down place.

Everything seems so far away at glance and I guess because it is and we sit trying to figure out what fences we have to jump, tunnels we have to crawl through and all the crazy shit we think would get us there as soon as possible. We are all headed there, somewhere out there, and though some never make it, it’s meant for us to get there. And maybe the long road is the best road. If we fly there by shortcut what was meant for us to have may not be ready or we may not be… after all, what’s made in the oven always taste better than what’s made in the microwave.

I can still bet that she would have laughed to my lamest jokes like: why can’t a bicycle stand on its own? Because it’s two-tired. Or when I stupidly say that he’s not Coldplay. He can’t FixYou. Facepalm. But she won’t laugh anymore because her grumpy side overtook her double faced sense of humor.

But now I guess some what ifs are happier than ever afters. So I hold on to your unique promise and I’m not saying you have to meet me. I’m just wishing one day you will. It's called being nice, ever heard of it? Don’t worry, I’ll keep carrying out a random act of kindness with no expectation of reward, safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the same for me. And you will.

So today, I vowed that no matter how corrupted or commercial I was to become as a lawyer, I would always put the simple love of humanity before all. And I’m tempted to ask if He can give me eyes that see the best in people, a heart that forgives the worst, a mind that forgets the bad, and a soul that never loses faith.

I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go, but what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye. Yann Martel – Life of Pi. And you will regret the chance you didn’t take. So the tragedy of life is clearly not death but what we let die inside of us while we live.

And I would like her to always remember how heartbreaking was the end of December.

By the beginning of October.

PS: For the past few months, I was often asked indirect questions such as “You are not writing anymore, are you?” and I was fed up of answering to curiosity and gossips. Actually too many issues were drowning me. So I had to take a break from writing. And I’m sorry for it because I know that once you start writing, you should not stop. So here I am.