For the past few days, all I've ever done at home (aside from my daily chores) was to crumple papers, strike out words and phrases, ultimately throwing them in the bin. Let me just simply say this, I was having a hard time writing a new letter. Those that have been thrown out, they all feel so boring or if not, bland. They didn’t come with goosebumps nor do they make me feel anything at all. I don’t know. Maybe, they are reflections of what I’m becoming – no depths.
In any case, let this girl write once more on blank sheets of paper, writing through pencils and bad handwriting (while listening to Ed Sheeran’s I see fire), despite the rustiness of words written, notwithstanding the disjointed paragraphs and sentences – almost like seeing through her disassembled soul. I hope that you read it. Later on, you’d find out that this letter is meant only to know which is better on days when you refuse to feel anything: A cup of coffee or a bottle of beer.
I know that you wouldn’t care, and that maybe you got a life of your own; a much happy place to be. I would not interfere, cut this out, please don’t read this anymore. But if you’re willing to let me hold you for a little while, then here’s to knowing what I don’t know. I don’t know what our life would be after the post script. How will it turn out, years, months and weeks from now? It gets scarier. I’ve never seen myself tremble to something that is not happening yet. I guess I just have to go through it, be more lost, searching for unreliable sources of happiness and temporary hands to hold, just like yours.
Things would be different; I may not feel the same thing tomorrow. I will probably forget who wrote this letter, or where these feelings came from. Maybe, your hand that held mine would not mean to both of us anymore. The table would clear up, empty bottles would be clanking like bells, the bartenders would probably go home and rest, a signal that both of us should have to go too. I don’t know which is scarier – seeing the end or starting again?
So it’s past midnight, I decided to drink the last bottle of beer on the fridge; as if spilling all the words that I haven’t had the courage to say. How do we really catch feelings to make it stay a little longer? I always get to hold them, but it always seems so short-lived. I thought I was brave enough to let it slip away, like blowing off the only burning candle in a dark and obscure tunnel. I thought I was always fit for it; the same thing, when I used to think I was intelligent and creative, but things turned out to be lies – a sad reality that college have taught me. Turns out, I needed more of it plus courage and bravery, and the ability to accept the fact that some things weren’t always meant to stay and that some things weren’t always meant for us, or at least, not yet.
The strong breeze of the wind starts to creep through my windows again just as I was about to finish the last bottle, right then I feel a tingling sensation of warmth again, the way group hugs are meant to feel or kisses on the cheeks. I closed my eyes and asked myself, how far are you willing to go?
I woke up a little early this morning, I don’t know much about making my own coffee, but I have no choice. It tastes bitter, do coffee also reflects the way your heart feels? I am only kidding, of course. Some days, I always make it sweeter than it should be. I’ve grown to like it and this is the reason why I hate Café Americano! If coffee speaks about us, it would probably say, “Ah this girl is stubborn and romantic”, to which I might agree. However, upon tasting the coffee that I just made, there might be changes in perception, it would now probably say, “Ah this girl is confused”, to which I might agree again. I am not sure whether I had put too much sugar or too much coffee. A constant battle of trying to compensate hate for so much misplaced sweetness. Hate, this time, prevailed.
When I wrote the first few lines of this letter, I didn’t know how to continue. I always try pausing to breathe, and for some moments, I feel like crumpling this again. Not because it was becoming boring or bland, no not anymore, but because it is already drawing to a conclusion of something more than what I was supposed to impart. I was frightened to begin, ironically because I didn’t know how to start. Right now, I’m frightened of not knowing how to put an end to this. Hold me tighter before I let you go.
Bravery. They always told me that brave people are the ones that didn’t quit, those that didn’t cry, the ones who fought and won, and the ones who were able to cover-up the sadness they feel. If these are all the criteria, then maybe I am not brave after all. I’m a lion in remorse or probably just a house cat. But, I beg to differ. As I begin to ponder on this cup of bitter coffee, I thought to myself – no, some brave people are the opposites of those things. Bravery is telling yourself you’re not scared, even if your heart beats faster than normal or telling people that you are “fvcking scared!!!” but you chose to continue anyway. You know what being brave means to me? It is the ability to let go of your hand despite the fact that I never wanted to.
I don’t know what our life would be after the post script. How things will turn out, years, months and weeks from now? I am scared. I guess I just have to go through it, despite getting lost even more, searching for new sources of happiness and temporary hands to hold. At first, I thought I wasn’t fit for it or maybe I still am, but after finishing the nasty bitter coffee I can now say, I’m not weak – I just happen to love the things that are daunting, sometimes it makes me cry but it doesn’t weaken me.
Thank you for trying to put up with the disjointed paragraphs of this letter, to the midnight drunkenness up until this halcyon morning with coffee and above all, to the short-lived feeling. Someday, when the feeling comes back, I’ll make sure I’m ready to catch it, to cage it and make it stay a little longer. Today, I guess I have to let it go and only hold memories of it on Polaroid pictures or the remains of our group chat. Maybe, seeing the end is not what is scary, it’s actually the beginning - It always is. Yes, some things aren’t meant to stay forever, but then again if we want things to be meant for us, then let it be. The universe is in love with those that create their own destiny, and most probably to those who are brave enough to defy what destiny is trying to tell them. Sometimes, they come with unwavering faith.
I don’t know what got me to feel all these things despite refusing to succumb to it; maybe it was the bottle of beer, the cup of coffee, no, it was you and the way you held my hand.
I am letting you go now
P.S. It’s okay if you are scared. I am too. Good luck to us!