I’m An Open Book But You Still Can’t Read Me

You can read my words but you can’t really understand my sentences, you can’t understand why I paused after a certain sentence or why I ended a sentence with an exclamation mark rather than a full stop.

You can read my headlines but you won’t grasp what I’m trying to say, you won’t know if it’s a misleading headline or a headline that has nothing to do with what I’m truly trying to say. In other words, you can’t sum me up in one headline.

When I write about loving you, you’d think that I can’t sleep at night thinking about you, but the truth is, I write about a familiar feeling; a moment in time when life was wondrous and I was mesmerized. A feeling that struck me once before that I couldn’t forget.

I write about how you made me feel because I loved that feeling — not you.

When I write about missing you, I write about the person you used to be, the person you pretended you were or the person I thought you were. I write about who I thought you were and the things you made me believe in. I miss the rush of emotions, the whopping smile on my face when I saw your name on my phone, the bright future that I painted in all my favorite colors and the moment I realized that I’m capable of loving unconditionally.

I write about missing everything about that phase but that doesn’t mean I want to call you or I want you back. Missing you serves as an inspiration not a final statement.

You can translate my words into your language but it still won’t make sense because you and I speak in very different languages with totally different connotations.

You can try to read between the lines but you’ll always find them blurry and murky because you interpret things according to how your mind operates and your mind is a maze.

My words are a reflection of me; they can be contradicting, they can be wise, they can be childish, they can be insane, they can be idealistic, they can be flawed, they can be harsh and they can be fragile. My words can be a lot of things but they will always be real.

I’m an open book because I write about the finest details but you were never detail-oriented so you will never understand the depth of my words.

My book is open, you can flip through my pages or highlight my words but you will never be able to pin me down, because it takes more than reading from a distance to know me, it takes more than a few words to figure me out and it takes a lot more than reading to know my story but you never had the courage to finish the story till the end.

So you can read my book a thousand times but you still won’t be able to read me.