It’s bittersweet to reread our old conversations, the conversations I saved from the past year or so. I see our words to each other on the screen, and I can’t help but still smile. I still laugh at the banter and the silly one liners. Or my attempts at rapping. I should probably keep those ‘special’ rhyme schemes to myself, but I have a feeling you were amused. I liked to amuse you.
I can actually recall the thoughts that were going through my head at those exact moments in time. This was my opinion about this. And that was your view on that. We rarely agreed, and yet, we somehow synced on another level. We somehow found comfort in one another, where a deeper understanding was solidified under the surface.
I told you dreams I would have. You would provide insightful analysis. Well, sometimes. Sometimes, you had no clue what the fuck my dream implied; I didn’t know either. My dreams are fucking bizarre. You’d send me a song that you were listening to, and it was almost as if the musical artist was you. You would chat with me through music, and I would absorb the words and sounds, and then I’d like the song, too. I told you about my anxieties, and you told me to breathe. To reach. To respond accordingly.
You showed me how you think, how you see the world, and I devoured it all. Our talks were usually raw.
It’s bittersweet to reread our old conversations, the conversations I saved from the past year or so. Right now, our connection remains, it’s floating somewhere, but I’m not sure how to find it. I even miss those message alert sounds I’d hear when I told you my dreams, and you sent me your songs, and I told you my anxieties, and you illustrated how you think. I miss what those sounds represented.
The conversations are still here, though. It’s always nice to have proof that something existed.