To The Person I Couldn’t And Wouldn’t Write About

@edric /
@edric /

My high school English teacher once told me that I am so in love with metaphors. Every essay that I wrote, every poem that I passed and every draft that I threw swam in comparisons. She told me that it wouldn’t be my work without them. She also told me that it is quite sad how I had to compare everything. At the same time, it is also engaging in a sense that I never once looked at an object plainly as itself. She said that it will be my mark –  a trace of a beautiful burden that I have to carry for the rest of my life. I believed her. So why is it that when I met you, I ran out of metaphors? I couldn’t see you as a shade, or the light that I always associate with everything. How come you aren’t the daffodil in a field of weed or the breeze in a cold morning? Why is it that I can’t compare you?

I just couldn’t write about you. I started to think that I couldn’t write anymore at all. I spent long days and sleepless nights imagining you – in my head. You looked so wonderful in my head and I have a lot of adjectives that are fit to describe you but somehow when I put them into words, they’re all just a plain mess. Like a scribbling of a kid who was handed a pen and paper for the first time, or like my parents who couldn’t figure out Facebook when they first started it. In some way, I began to hate you. You made me feel weak in a field that I am most confident in. I couldn’t write anymore because of you. Just because you’re a mess doesn’t mean you have the right to make a mess of me too.

To be honest, that’s not exactly the truth. I like to think that I couldn’t write anymore but the truth is I don’t want to. My fingers go numb and my mind freezes every time I try to put your being into words. Half of what’s true is that you look so dashing in my mind that it frightens me. What if I couldn’t describe you in my writing as I see you in my mind? That would be injustice to many and a crime to you. I wouldn’t be able to live even a second knowing that I stripped you of what you really are. I wouldn’t be able to breathe knowing that I wasn’t able to describe every inch of you and your soul the way I see them in my mind. You don’t know how sorry I am every time I stutter the word “nice” to describe you because god, you are more than nice. You are way, way better than what nice is. Half of the truth is that deep down, I don’t want to share you. Yes, I don’t want to write about how grand you are. I feel like when I finally put you in words, people will read about you and would want you. I don’t want anyone wanting you while I constantly need you. 

Despite all that, here I am, writing about the inner tug of war that I had on whether I should write about you or not. In case you haven’t figured it out, yes I have decided to write about you. So forgive me if my words fall short because along with them did my heart. Here come the metaphors that I tried to squeeze out of my brain just so I can prove that you are more than nice for me.

You would hate me if I say this but you are that little ray of sunlight that passes through my window every morning. You’re just a long stray of sunlight, not enough to lighten up my whole room but somehow you always end up striking my skin – not too hot but warm enough to wake me up. I want you to know that you are enough. Sometimes, I imagine starting days without you, those are the days that I would just rather spend on my bed, scrolling through all my social media accounts. So thank you for being one of the main reasons why I get out of bed. However small you think you are, I wouldn’t be able wake up without you. You remind me that there is a thing called morning.

You know that I’m allergic to alcohol so I began to see you as the aftermath of a long, drunken night. You are the rashes on my skin that irritates me after nine consecutive shots of god knows what. You annoy me every time you start to itch and when I do scratch you, you leave a stinging sensation –  a feeling that would make me want to slash my skin. Surprisingly, you remind me of how stupid I was; or of how stupid I am because somehow I never learn and still continuously drink alcohol. And so, I am thankful that time after time, you’re still there every after all my craziness and stupidity.

You’re my cup of coffee every before my PE class. My professor makes us run ten laps around the gym and you know that running is the last thing I would do. In all honesty, coffee isn’t the reason why I can run those laps, but coffee makes me think that I can run all those laps. I hope you know that you motivate me. You aren’t specifically doing anything but the thought of you just keeps me running. I love coffee so badly and you’re the type of coffee that I’d never put down.

I could go on and on about the things and happenings that I can compare you with but that would take a book to finish. It’s funny how not too long ago, I couldn’t find a metaphor that could illustrate you but now I can’t stop myself from slamming the keyboard so fast. I’m scared to stop. I’m scared that if I do, I’d forget about all the perfect metaphors that I’ve thought for you. I’m scared that you’d think that you’re no more than a second in a clock, or a first liner in a book – easily forgotten, drowned by the others. No sweetheart, all these words that I’m writing aren’t even half of what you really are.

Here’s a thought, the real reason why I wasn’t able to think of a proper metaphor when I first met you was because you are the metaphor itself, a one big hell of a mess – words that are scattered altogether, thoughts that overlap and intersect; and somehow along those mess you started to make sense. No, you made sense the first time. I was just speechless to notice. Because you pull out the artistic soul in me and you eat it; that’s how you always look so beautiful in my mind. You take my words and you put them around you, like a coat that warms you up during the cold of Christmas nights. You wear my words as if they’re your own and you bend them to make you lovely. But sweetie, believe me, even without my words you still look as beautiful as scribbles of my drafts – unfinished, messy, indescribable. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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