art · Science · Universe · writing

Existential Crisis #1 : Do What You Love.

When I was a child, I had -a dream- that disappeared when I was told what comes along with him.

I spent years contemplating whether or not I should write his eulogy, because somehow I can still feel his presence every once in a while, like summer breeze hitting my bare skin, making my body shiver.
We haven’t spoken in a very long time. But one day, he texted me out of the blue four months after I walked away expecting to never hear from him again. I often think maybe he would do it again.
That’s why I carry my phone with me everywhere I go, just in case he calls again.
In biology, I turn it off and try my hardest not to scribble his name all over my notebook’s pages. I try my hardest to block him out of my thoughts and convince myself that even if he does call again, I won’t pick up, and I won’t tell him that he still matters heavily. I won’t tell him that I miss the days we used to live next door to each other, when we would meet up at my tree house at 3 AM because I couldn’t sleep, or because he was the kind of person who needed validation every once in a while and I was more than glad to give it to him. Even if he does call, I won’t tell him that I miss him, because he is not what I want anymore.

When I was a child, I had -a dream- that disappeared when I was told what comes along with him.
But I am happy now.
My mother never missed a Saturday evening to tell me that I should allow myself to grab hold of the next dream. That’s exactly what I did. I found me another dream, one I spent years prioritising over every other aspect of my life, and he loves me. Even though he rolls his eyes when I hand him the letters I write for him (He thinks they’re a waste of precious time we could spend together being realistic.) he still reads them sometimes and smiles as he puts the envelopes in the pocket of his blazer, telling me that he keeps them in a box under his bed.
I believed I loved him, too, but I hadn’t questioned it until I found out there was no box at all. Just a bin filled with shreds of what I called love. I hadn’t questioned it until I found myself sitting on the couch in the tree house where I have written an entire novel for the dream that got away. I look to my right and see a dozen empty coffee mugs still dirty on the nightstand, and for a fraction of a moment, my memory takes me back to the day I told my mum “I will never break teeth over dreams anymore” and “I hate that he hasn’t called again.” in the same breath, the day I stabbed him and pretended I was the one who was bleeding and everyone was trying to help me while he kept shaking on the ground, begging for one last chance to prove that he could make me happy but this town offers nothing for people like him and me, or it does and my eyes are closed.

I miss him, I miss him, and I would take him back in a heartbeat if I could.

When I was a child, I had -a dream- that disappeared when I was told what comes along with him.

Defining him was so similar to defining love. It was impossible. He was the kind of dream you needed to tilt your head at to understand. Just like love, You can throw words at him but never pin him down. Nothing is misidentified more often than love. But for now, I can know what it’s not. If you feel like you would replace them in a heartbeat if you had the chance, it’s not love.


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