It was never a mental blackout.
I’d never run out of words to describe you. Every bit of you was beautiful. Your freckles were constellations formed, just negligible blemishes to a flawless facade. And your smile, this unapologetically magnetic power you’ve harnessed, I can’t get enough of it. Your eyes glistened in the summer sky, like morning stars to an already perfect day.
With you around, the world was majestic. Every sunrise was a welcoming warmth and every sunset was an explosion of colors, velvet strikes over the horizon paving way for the entourage of stars.
You gave meaning to life. Nothing seemed unfathomable, and every unexpected moment would merely appear to be another thing to unravel. The world seemed limitless, and so were my words.
I offered them to you, my words. I breathed the minutiae of life, immortalizing every moment and penning them down.
But, you see, every letter is a trinket of blood. I siphoned every bit of me so I could plate a perfect prose to justify your presence in my midst. They were never just articles of love. They were my form of love.
You ask me, “How do you write such beautiful masterpieces?” Sure, there were moments of ingenuity where I could just fish out these ideas frolicking above my head. But most of the time, I have to dig deep. And in each layer I peel out from myself, I am enfeebled. These pens are double-edged swords. And as I carelessly swing it over a blank canvas, I didn’t notice the battle scars I create in my heart.
Every story is a moment of weakness. It’s as if I’m unclothing myself in front of you, letting you peek on the bareness of my soul. I have walked through life unarmored. And I thought it was alright. You were by my side, after all.
But as time passed by, I forgot myself. I forgot to write about how beautiful I am. I was oblivious to my own life story. I don’t blame you though. My love was always yours for the taking. And I never regretted every ounce of affection I poured on you. But, love, let me don my armor again. Because this time around, I’ll be the hero of my own narrative.
Right now, let me fill my own cup. Let me see the grandeur of life in its peaceful solace. Let the sea breeze caress me as I walk through life in solitude. Let me dance under the moonlight, never minding the isolation. Because if there’s one thing that life has taught us, it’s this: At some point, we have to try walking without somebody else’s hand guiding us. At some point, we have to remove our training wheels. Sadly, you were mine. You were my comfort. You were my safety net. And we both know life shouldn’t be lived that way.
You told me before, “If anything, choose to love, because honestly there’s nothing worse than hindering yourself to be happy.” And ultimately, you were right. This time, I am choosing love. I am choosing to love myself. And this is why I stopped writing for you.