Debates happen every single day.
Tonight, though, there were no debates. My thoughts agreed, profusely, with my eagerness to write. Finally.
Minutes ago, I had been to a familiar world of papers turning reality into a cornucopia of bliss and magic. As a matter of fact, and for a single split of second, I decided this place should be real. The fiction slapped me, slowly, but powerfully…indeed, that’s the point of fiction. It makes you fall in love until cold water, gently, pours down on you saying, “It’s time to wake up, dreamer. This is a work of fiction.” In short, I came back to reading the old, overused romance novels I had in high school.
The idea of spending few minutes to read them in between my breaks from the “bloody review” doesn’t matter to me, anymore. Numbness is not the word. Passion, in the middle of the war zone area, is what I aim for.
I guess, every human soul yearns for love. Not admiration. The human soul thirsts for the deep, blue water, instead of a make-believe pool of affirmation.
So the thought of another human soul knocking on my door made me lose my balance. I guarded myself too well that I didn’t notice I was caught off guard. That soul taught me: to laugh amidst few broken lines from a song, to keep my ears open for words I wouldn’t expect to hear, to simplify things for better understanding, to ask questions with no answer, to solve my own Math problem by using a scientific calculator or Google, as the case may be, and to hope for victory even if I have, only, 1% chance of winning.
From that moment on, I saw things in a different perspective. I was dancing through every page of my life, when I should be walking or running. It happened so fast and only when I realized this soul could do more that I lost him.
I discovered: that soul doesn’t believe in love. That soul, I believe, was hurt by love. That soul doesn’t want love, when in fact mine is beginning to fall like ashes on the ground
“Eazy-ly”, I understood things with him, but it’s harder to make him understand that love exists. It’s ironic. And painful.
Painful because that beautiful, broken soul had chosen to close himself in a cocoon from the remnants of this cruel world. It’s heartbreaking that you wanted to unleash his beauty but he just wouldn’t leave his place because he’s not, yet, ready. That soul was, surely, broken, and he needed to heal himself. Until when?
If only his soul would allow mine to heal with him. Ah!
Despite this poverty of spirit, my longing soul remains faithful that one day, maybe, that other soul will see life in a more colorful perspective. Maybe he will see it the way he made me see a deeper blue color of the ocean from afar. Or maybe he will heal and feel the same way I feel.
Fiction might have awakened the magma inside my volcano of thoughts, but I was thankful, at least, because this time I was not debating with myself. Slowly and beautifully, the molten magma flowed and created this post. Ironically and instantly, the rain poured so hard…waking me up and saying, “This is not fiction. Continue living, fighter.” What a wonderful story it has been!