I can write a poem for someone, in fact I have written countless already. I have been diving in and flying out of everyone’s mind, so many times than I could possibly count. Many times, I wake up in the middle of the night, just to write. I don't know why I have this tendency of drenching with ink when my heart is filled with euphoria, or melancholia.
Everytime I try to hold back my mind, my heart pulls me harder into something. Somewhat a mystery that could not wait for an explorer to step in its locus. As if an oasis so lonely that it finally wants to dry out and eaten by the sand of time and cease to exist to have a company.
“Thank you for your ink,” they may say. As if my writings are worth to be read and or even well-constructed enough to withstand a storm of critiques. As if my write-ups are messy enough to be called an art in a museum they call literati society. “Thank you for giving us hope.”
Each day, I have been so filled with sentiments. Chords of hope and light that are so bright I could not withstand but share it to someone else. I share my smile, my laugh to everyone. Always. By writing their stories.
Even when I could not see my own island, I have tried to plunge myself into the abyssal depths just to snatch someone out of their own ocean of dilemmas.
And maybe that is one of the reasons why I feel so lost. That although I have made someone smile, I could not see myself to them. I could not gaze my own stars when I show them their own.
I have written so much for someone that I failed to write for myself.
I have made someone my whole literae humaniores when they cannot even write me even a word.
The sun shines the same today, the first day of the year. Yet, perhaps this realization I hope will grow me. That not time to time, my presence should revolve to someone else’s.
Maybe this time, I should know that I am not a moon but a star myself. That I am not only for a midnight conversation, but also for a midday party. That I can still shine on my own even when no one is watching, that I can still write even when there is no one reading.
I should see myself not just someone who writes for somebody, but also to be written as their own poem. Certainly, there is a diary with our names we do not know about for we are so busy writing for someone else.
And just like a Ferris wheel, there maybe two seats but I can still enjoy the ride alone still.
This year, I hope I can find more smiles than I have given. This year, I will not expect something from someone, or even try to pull someone back in my life when their roles were long overdue.
Learning that everyone is temporary in our life maybe a hard reprimand, but I need to permanently cast it in my mind. I should open more doors in my heart, just in case there are people who want to leave and also for those who want to board in.
I may be a sentimental person and I do give things and people so much importance that are even often too much. I keep them like a coin collector that could kill anyone who tries to sneak in alcove. But, being sentimental is not proven effective for something to stay.
It is essential to learn the art of letting things go and let new ones to occupy instead. And it is very important to find ourselves when everyone is busy losing for someone else.
You can write for someone a library, but remember also a book for yourself...
©schistus
S