As my eyes draw back to the sequences of the plot that transpired, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding of happiness of mixed emotions. I know it doesn’t really happen all the time, but when it does, I think you have to be ready to let it in. And as I replay the melodies of yesterday, I couldn’t help but highlight the lyrics to a Taylor Swift song that best suit the entire drama.
Turn the lock and put my headphones on
He always said he didn’t get this song
But I do, I do
And you throw your head back laughing
Like a little kid
I think it’s strange that you think I’m funny
Cause he never did
And I’ve been spending the last 8 months
Thinking all love ever does is
Break and burn and end
Do you know that feeling of being reborn? Like every senses of your anatomy is heightened by this feeling – a red one- that makes everything so magical and thrilling and exciting and . . . just . . . crazy all the same. Like when someone – a stranger-turned-friend – invites you into their house for the first time and you’re all like “should I come in?” or “thank you but . . . are you sure?” stuff.
New beginning, new story, new experience. Wonder what to make of them?
I am scared to begin with, actually. I am afraid that it’s going to be another failed attempt to start something beautiful. The previous two attempts were as sad and tragic to be called an affair. I like how that feeling makes someone feel perfect and whole and sparkly like a diamond walking on sunshine.
I don’t want this to be something where all you could do is dream of a could-be because it didn’t happen. I don’t want to be a songstress-like person who would write a blog post about another failed attempt to start a relationship. I don’t want to be the one who’ll be strumming the guitar on a sad and lonely tune while reminiscing it all too well.
More importantly, I don’t want this to be just a dream where I could wake up any moment from now. Let me dream for a very long time if it is a dream. They say that when you lose your grip to something that anchors you to happiness, all you’ll have are sleepless nights. I don’t want him and the happy feeling that tails him to disappear. I want this to be true.
I want to walk through his door and feel I am home, somehow. I want to be the one who’ll hold his hands late at night and usher him to sleep. I want to be his comfort after his long day; rub his temples to ease the tensions and stress. I want to be the one whom he’ll cling to whenever he’s down and whenever he is on his up. I want to be perfectly imperfect so that all he‘ll see is how things can be adjusted and how we can work things out.
Perhaps, these are all romance-novels materials. But what are the chances of having that in real-life? I wish that there is hope for us to be. I hope that we could be.