The first letter of realization came from sadness deep within me, that people, no matter how much you think you know them or love them, will done their parts and deviate away from you. There were so much unsaid words that weighted heavily from the past but recently I find them disintegrating into silence that was incurable as time consumed their meanings. I remember pouring my heart out, writing for and about the people I loved: I wanted to convey how much love I had for them only because I am unable to scream it out, on top of my lungs until these bi-lungs collapse and my voice is small and quivers so I painted word colours instead, described love and faces, happiness, sunrises, sunsets, heartaches and tears all in words. Never got tired. Not once.
I wanted to be heard. Never got tired. Not once. Now not so much.
Phone works two ways, you know.
The first sound of hurt is the wake-up call. Phone calls conversation I had are not of "Hi, hello, are you there? How are you coping?" and "I'm fine, thanks." I breathed heavily into the receiver. I waited for someone, for anyone to pick it up. Anyone who would ever be so kind to show me what un-loneliness feels like. I know it's wrong but it could've been anywho. It didn't matter. In the end, I find myself standing in front of that public phone, my hands sweats gripping coins in the heatwave like some kind of talisman and burning my eyes staring at the sun. Again and again, I stood alone in this world. The receiver felt of object from different dimension. As foreign as the carbon dioxide storm I created into the public phone. Loneliness is concrete, yes, but intangible.
Always the one running after those on the run. You think you know them. You run locusly circle* of this person.
Love love love.
Get nearer, get nearer, get nearer.
*No matter how near you can get to, your path is designated not to intersect. There is no deviation of stars aligning.
Get nearer. For God's sake.
Try harder.
Change. Get your way.
The person I am calling is currently unreachable. I'll leave a message after the beep.
Hey, since you've been gone, I want to write only for one person, myself, as an endeavor of comprehending the maelstrom thoughts winding over the mountain range of my brains. Write of other people. Write about them, but for myself. Kind of like catharsis. Yeah. Now I want to make calls to people that recognize smoke signals indicating dying. Kinda got tired of burning my keepsakes. I know this voicemail will take millions of light year to reach you, but in the end it will. I know it will. Eventually. So hey, millions-of-light-year-you, goodbye.
