Perhaps, not all words are necessarily daggers, despite the fact that all of them seem to be weapons. Some might be guns, instantaneously ending a life the second triggers are pulled (the moment they are uttered). Some might be the sharpest knives, severing every part of you unknowingly until the moment you’ve bled to death (words seeming harmless until it’s too late). Others might be rusty blades, eliciting muffled screams as they take their time in tormenting your skin and every vein beneath (words that agonize you ever so delicately).

And then there are paper swords.

Just like all the promises you’ve left me with.

Mark, tayo na lang ulit.

Please? :(

What happens if you fall in love with a writer?

gqmoments:

karenfelloutofbedagain:

Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.

But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?

This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind. 

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. 

Did you know?

You were supposed to be my second and my last.

And I still wonder sometimes. If only fate had been a little kinder, would things have turned out differently? I want to know, I really do, because the one thing I’ve been hanging on to is the knowledge that I would have loved you with everything and you would have done the same thing.

We would’ve spent this summer together and the next and the next and there is no end to see because there is no end at all and I would have had you. You would’ve sung those silly songs of yours and I would’ve laughed at the atrocity of it all but oh, how we wouldn’t mind the world because I would have had you. We would have carved our names in that old oak tree and you would have added a silly little heart just because you could but oh, how we wouldn’t want our glory days to end because you would have had me.

Instead, we’re stuck in the past tense and I’m afraid to realize I could be the only one in this rut. I still wonder sometimes. Do I even cross your mind like you do in mine?

It’s been three months (and two other pairs of eyes I tried to gaze into) but I’m ravished by this cruelty and selfishness because the only irises I really understood were yours. It’s not fair, but who ever dared say life was? I could have had you, if only you didn’t liked her too. Still, that doesn’t stop me from seeing how our whole lives would have gone down (and nothing stops me either from wanting it).

Do you know? I still replay the moments we talked of the names our children would have and I still recall perfectly all the promises that accompanied those moments. Someone like me must’ve known better but even someone like you mustn’t have seen this coming too. Four days ago, you took my hand, kissed me on the cheek, and talked to me the way we would if nothing changed, even though we both knew everything, already did. And oh, how we didn’t mind the world.

And I knew then that there was nothing I could do to stop remembering the worst nights when all I can do is sob into those pristine sheets and whisper over and over, oh god, I would have married you… I would have married you.

Tell me, love, weren’t we supposed to grow old together?

Please believe me when I tell you the thoughts still haunts me to this day. But it doesn’t matter and I don’t let it matter, because fate was never supposed to spare us the least bit of kindness. I still wonder sometimes though. If things turned out differently, would you have been happier than you are with her now? Because that’s the only thing that ever held any weight when I let you slip through my fingers time and time again. Tell me, love, that you’ve found happiness and I would look at you from this point on as nothing more but an old friend.

At least, that’s what I’d try to do. Though who am I fooling? The mere fact that I would have loved you with all of me and that you would have done the same thing ensures that we would never cut this thread completely. Not really, if at all.

Did you know? (I hope you do now.)

You were supposed to be my second and my last.

“I’m not like the others.”

I remember when you promised me that you’re going to be different from other guys. I was so stupid to believe since I was hoping that I could give it a try. Everything turned out well for a while, and I told myself that this could be it — that you might be that guy who would change my perception of men. Turned out, you’re just like the rest. You don’t know how much it hurts to be left like that with your lame reason. But you’re a lesson learned, at least now I know what kind of person to avoid.