Dear N,

May 9, 2015 § Leave a comment

“But remember, there are two ways to dehumanize someone; by dismissing them and by idolizing them.” -David Wong

I would never dream of actually giving you a letter. Every time someone just ascends as my muse, I write about them – all of my creative juices are fed to them and I bleed words into paper, colors in canvass. For a time, you were this goddess figure to me – I have dehumanized you this way. I apologize. I only ever saw you as a Starlight I am chasing.

But when I realized at the most random part of the day that you are human, like I am, I resolved. I resolved that maybe, I can reach to touch you. You will not burn me and my horizon like a sun or star would. You will not keep me flying like the wind. You will not keep me happy like mashed potatoes would. You will not keep me alive like breathing. Those things are not you. You are human. You make me feel human.

My thoughts these days would be filled with images of the letters I write for you. “Do you see me as a masterpiece… I am broken and in pieces with all my imperfections scattered in the memories and flesh of those I’ve hurt,” I write in my journal. And in the next one, I’m kinda planning to write about how we would have this watercolor session and you would show me all the “worthier things that water could dry for” (this line was still from that journal lmao).

Are you still reading? You should. Because this is the part where I tell you … that uh, em… I like you. You are this humanly presence that make me, well (wlell?) feel. I have learned to love and know myself better because of you. Perhaps, this is just me showing my selfishness. But really, I musn’t be that bad, I guess? I mean, you painted me? That’s something I’ve always dreamed of someone doing. For someone to consider me as a fit subject for watercolor (or any art) made me think that maybe I’m okay? I’m alright. Mao nang, salamat.

But, disclaimer… that’s not why I like you. Even before you painted me, I have been…, well, liking you. Aghh, not gonna dig into that. I am … embarrassed. I have written so much although I have not tire. Is this your miracle? Gah, there’s me dehumanizing you again.

Before I stop writing, I would like to say that my confession is… just that. I am not expecting you to like me back nor am I expecting a reply (the yes or no answers will burst my heart eitherways so…). I just want you to know. I am not sure what I’m getting from you knowing my feelings but I’m telling it anyways. This is a first for me. And because I am coward, I can accept some silence.

Thank you for finishing reading this… horrible letter. It’s more or less a ramble. Incoherent. But I guess this is why literature tends to diminish the heart in writing for the pursuit of the craft. Writing with your heart is enjoyably messy. Again, thank you.

With uh… um… admiration?


PS: I’m still looking forward to us talking (or chatting). Like uh, we can hang out if you want. That is, if you want. I mean if you don’t want to, it’s okay though it’d be nice. It’d be nice. Amping!


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