Someday I will plant a seed in my heart. A seed of Love. I will water it with as much happiness as I can afford. And, Will take care of it.
Whispers were her only friend. Whispers came to her every time she slept, begging her to wake up. Whispers came to her every time she woke up, pushed her out of bed. Whispers came to her every time she got up, driving her blindly to the window. Whispers were her only friend. Whispers only came to her, and only she obeyed them. She never understood the reasons that dragged her to the window. To stand still, contemplate the outside, focus on that window in the house facing hers.
That window was the center of her attention. The center of her attraction. The shelter of her buzzing thoughts. And, the destiny of her traveling sight. Away from that window, loneliness manipulated her, drove her back to stand still and contemplate that window. It was the feeling of someone on the other side, standing still, contemplating her window. It was the feeling of someone on the other side that mesmerized her thoughts, her feelings, and her heart.
-Can I hold your hand?
-No you can’t.
-I will hug you!
-No you won’t.
-I’m going to kiss you!
-No you are not.
-Every time you hold my hand, my skin freezes, my words stop at the edge of my mouth, and my lips crumble
-When you hug me, I feel secure between your arms, and it scares me. You make me want to run away, to hide, and search for danger.
-To run back to you and collapse between your arms
-When you kiss me, you make me shiver, you ignite the volcano that relaxes in my stomach
-Wy didn’t you say so before?
-Here I am, saying it now.
-I love you!
-Yeah, you love me with your actions, I love you with my words.
-Come give me a hug!
-Because I’m leaving!
-Because I’m strong, and you make me weak.
-We can be strong together.
-No, I’m doing fine on my own, thank you!
-You are weird!
-Yeah, I know.
I will put my hand on this pillow, lay my cheek on that hand, grab my knees closer to my chest, and try falling asleep.
Something is wrong with my bed. Your smell laid no more on my pillow, your fingers swayed no more on my forehead, and your breath traveled no more on my chest. And something is wrong with my room. My stairs drummed no more with your steps, my door trembled no more with your dancing fingers, and my walls echoed no more with your laugh. And something is wrong with me. Your frown faced no more my jokes, your fingers trembled no more in my hand, and your gaze met no more my eyes.
She came, laid her elbows on that rusty iron fence, pinned her fingers together and sight-fully dived into the deep ocean. It was her who inspired him. It was her stillness that irritated him. Why? Why did she come every sunset? He knows why he came! For him, it was meditation, it was setting his eyes loose and traveling to where the end of the world lies. Why did she come? He decided to ask her.
Clapping his hands once, pressing his palms on his knees, he rose up and marched like a determined soldier toward that mystic fortress.
The moment he reached her, she turned her eyes to face his questioning face. To his pathetic attempt, she imprisoned a silent scream in her eyes that were flooding with tides of tears. Then, she lifted her pain with the movement of her perishing smile and spoke with a trembling voice:
“To the deepest of this ocean, I set my secret for sail. To the eyes of this world, I keep my pain unnoticed. To this ocean of secrets, I reveal my wounds and share the burden of hearts, the hearts that are broken with losses.”
It was after midnight when sleep suddenly fled out of his eyes. It was after that when he traveled all over his bed to find the perfect spot where sleep resided. It was then when he surrendered to the urge of going up and writing. He must write the guilt and shame out of his heart. He squeezed his eyes one last time; maybe sleep will get in and finally rest. But, all was in vain, and he must explain.
Grabbing the papers and the pen resting on them was a hard decision to make. But the remorse storming inside of him must be sent away. If he is going to write, how should he address her? Dear Beloved? She was never a beloved. She didn’t take his breath away. She didn’t make his heart beat faster. In fact, she almost slowed it down, he thought.
Dear friend? The plan was to fall in love. He wanted her to be the one that will fit in that empty frame carried in his heart, he thought.
No, she was not the one. But yet, she turned his life upside down. The memories of all who came before her bumped in his head. To leave him, they were always right. And by them, he was always left. Why did this one stay? Was she that desperate? Or, was he that good? Oh, yes, he remembers. He was that good. Good in lies that is. Pretending to be perfect, claiming morals he never had before, and radiating the honor he always desired. He didn’t break her heart for her sake. No, he remembers now, it was for his sake. But breaking her was breaking his pride, was crashing his ego, and was turning him from the usual victim into the perfect slayer. And for that, he must not ignite the flame he put out. He must not break her again.
He must go back to sleep, and find the lost peace that he had once before.
Right there, around the corner, wind raves a paper, flipping it in a circular movement. Small rocks tumble along with the flow of that old dusty road. The road’s endless rounds carry the sight and twist it with every corner. Right there, around the next corner, that tree stands still. Surviving every shimmering season, surviving every dry inexistence of rain. Yet, it falls for the brown episode of time that absorbs the green out of every vain.
A dried leaf falls down silently, surrendering and laying down peacefully. Life ends. Another leaf falls, neighboring its precedent. The mother tree can do nothing to save its flurried children. Life cannot get any harder. How can a tear drop out of inanimate? People can cry, shout, yell, and mourn. How can a tree mourn its loss? How can a tree wail the loss of its falling children? But, what do we know? A man knows nothing. Man cannot break into the silence of nature, nor comprehend the agony in stillness. And again, what do we know?
We cry, spill tears, and with those tears, we spill our rage and pain out. What would a tree spill? Is it possible that these leaves are not the children? Is it possible that these leaves are what a tree would shed in a moment of sorrow?
Trembling footsteps, barely heard, barely moving, approach from that other corner. Hesitant and reluctant that young man disturbs the stillness of nature, moves toward the tree. Touches the aging stem, goes around it, looking for something in particular. There is it, a trembled carving of a heart with two letters inside. At the sight of this heart, the young man drops to his knees, puts his hands on the nearly erased heart, and cries. He cries so hard, and so loud that as if the wind blows were in harmony with his screams. Could it be that this tree has witnessed a broken love tragedy? Or could it be that it has witnessed the arrogance of a child who grew up in age and pretended to grow up in value so he never came back for the shade of this old tree? Or could it be that it missed the sweat of a wounded runaway who craved for shelter under her branches? Could this silence be resembling the loss of any of them? What do we know! What do we know!