I am a writer. And all my favorite metaphors sit underneath my tongue.
But in your existence, I lose track of them. I am dragged into my own reality, my head in a potential disarray with the idea that is you. People call it insanity but I figured every writer needs to have a bit of an escape, don’t you think?
Needless to say, I am aware of my shortcomings— for my writing condition, that is. I end up rambling in an abstract language with the thought of you. I tend to describe you in colors and shades I’ve never known before. In my writing, I find you in the saltiness and depth of the ocean– in heavenly bodies as gallant as galaxies until they are reduced to stardust. Like this, you have thrashed into my world, invaded it, made it yours– as though you are the love of my life.
But you are not. You are more than what I labeled you as. You don’t make me smile. You make me so goddamn, untainted, wind-in-my-hair, kid-in-a-candy-store happy. Sometimes, I feel so insane with my heart pounding with fervor in my chest. God knows it could still get as petty and ridiculous.
You are a haven to my massive collection of guilty pleasures. When I wrap my body around a blanket, a bag of chips at the side, earbuds plugged in and a movie waiting to be played, you know shit’s about to go down. It’s crudity and grandeur at the same time.
You are my favorite adventure on my bucket list. I imagine journeying through the seven seas and nothing would still compare to you. Call it wanderlust— because I could trace the endless expanse of your skin, hover over your lanky frame, traipse across your beautiful savannahs, explore your entirety. And still, I wouldn’t be able to wrap my head around the idea that you are impossibly wondrous. Too much that it makes me dizzy.
You are my miracle. Just like how Augustus was Hazel Grace’s miracle. Or how Landon was Jamie’s. You are every prayer I have clasped my hands together for, kneeled for and am grateful for. To this day, I look at you and sunshine just automatically radiates off of that angelic face and I wonder how I got so lucky.
But most of all, you are my home. You are every one of my favorite spots in the house. Even every dusty corner. You are every song in my playlist, making me cry, laugh and smile on repeat. You are the waves, carrying me across the waters and then back to the shore. You held me in your arms and I knew I’ve arrived safely back home.
I am a writer. And you are my favorite metaphor. You exist not in human form but in my imagination. And I’ve ignored all other trepidations. After all, I wouldn’t mind if it means you can exist in both my reality and dreams all at once. People call it insanity, that my head is in potential disarray but every writer needs a bit of an escape, don’t you think?