I have liked written words since I first remember it — or maybe since I realized that spoken words evaporate to carbon dioxide leaving nothing but unaccountable testimony.
Words move like travelers treating me like a little child before their grandpas. Telling heroic episodes enthusiastically while smelling like old cigarettes. They mix nonsense with delusion to pierce minds and collect fears. Words are made to succumb people like quicksand, leaving them crawling helpless until they understand that they’re attending their own funerals.
But words also stay as it holds my breaths. Sometimes it stays and stare at my eyes as cold as a marble statue, sometimes like burnt ashes so warm it lulls me to deep sleep; to another spectrum of nothingness where black is the daylight. It stays within me while people chatter and prattle, walking slow with its own pace until I forgot that I live in a world of eight billion people.
At that particular night, words were my lover. It sat in front of me and smiling what people would call an archaic smile; awkward and goofy in a way — the way how I exactly want it to be. It has presented itself with many things from fancy typographic styles to delicate approach with carefully selected images. But that night it was plain dark and familiar. It was honest and naked.
You might not want to think too much or hold too many questions. You might want to just close your eyes and whisper those words to yourself. I want you to let the words speak for itself; by dancing on your tongue and stay in your mind.
And I thought words — and lover — should not make me cry, but I did. I did for a reason. And I did it for none.
I did for I feel like trapped bubbles were finally let out to the exposed, to then cry because it bursts to million drops of insignificance. Because those words resemble my dream the other night, and my imagination the other day. I cry because it felt too real that it starts to feel like it is not. I cry because I want it to happen, and I cry because I’m afraid for it to do.
At that time I cry wanting to believe in you, but I cry because I can’t.
Because you told me words don’t matter; but I cry because they do.