The stories that I tell people, they’re endless. Just imagine the stories that I tell to myself, how infinite they are.
There’s this story of us meeting for the first time. You told me your name. I laughed… silently, wondering why you were named after that. Ten years later and I’m still wondering why you were named after the worst invention of mankind. I understand why you hate it. I do not understand why, after all that we’ve been through, your name is still alien to my lips. I do not comprehend why I cannot pronounce your one-syllable name naturally. Why, of all people, do I feel that your name is not mine to call? Not mine to say?
Yet your name represents all of the incomprehensible amalgamation of feelings, emotions and sensations that I am experiencing right now. There is a war brewing inside of me for the last four months. A war…with skirmishes and intense confrontations that I tend to avoid, at all times and at all costs, because I know that I will lose. A war that requires intervention. A war that requires the shedding of blood and tears. A war that could not be halted by a momentarily truce between myself and myself. A war that cannot be solved by a ceasefire of emotions. I am fighting in this war without you knowing. I am losing this war without you caring. I am surrendering, without you fighting.
There’s this story of me waiting. This story has not ended yet because I still am waiting. Waiting for what? To this question I have not, yet, the answer.
See, these stories are not all about you.
There’s this story of me screaming. I was lying in bed and my whole body got paralyzed. I thought of no one. I thought of nothing. Yet I screamed with no sound coming out of my mouth. I thought of dying and maybe living again through reincarnation to do the things that I haven’t yet done. I thought of just being in hell or in heaven for an eternity. I thought of watching people in their sleep when I turn into a lifeless soul roaming around the places I used to love. Yet, these thoughts made me sad. I was screaming and no one could not hear me. How pathetic is that? I was screaming for no one in particular. I was screaming into a spaceless and timeless void. At the thought of death, I thought of no one. No one.
There’s this story of me dying. I have died a thousand painful deaths that was not painful at all. For I dreamed them. They were real. They were in my mind. They happened. Yet I feel no pain. But I died. I perished. I succumbed to my mortality.
There’s this story of me crying. I was so fed up with the world. With friends whom I don’t feel connected to anymore. With people around the city bumping at me, staring at me and ignoring me. With relationships that are not meaningful as I expected them to be. With school, for shaping me to think like a free agent with the capability of changing the world and yet training me to understand it first…. but what comes with understanding the world is the pessimism that there isn’t anything that can be done to change it. With myself, for feeling every variation of feeling humanly possible. With myself, for remembering every horrible thing. With myself, for searching the meaning in life when there’s obviously not one meaning, but meanings. With myself, for asking too much. With myself, for being me. I cried. In my mind. I cried.
There’s this story of me telling you more stories. But my stories became boring, irrational, immature, that you decided to not listen anymore.
There’s this story of me telling you more stories. But you said sorry, I cannot listen to these anymore, because I have my own stories to tell…my own demons to fight…my own self to preserve.
There’s this story of me telling you more stories. But it is just in my head. Along with the many stories that I have kept and never told anyone but I plan to tell you. Along with the useful and useless knowledge that I acquired and kept in my attic for the last 20 years of my existence. Along with the memories of you and me. Along with the stories that the two of us wrote. Along with the stories that the most important people in my life wrote for me. Along with the stories that I tell myself everyday for me to survive and see another day.
See, there’s this story that I haven’t told you yet…. how my head ached this morning… how I wore high heels today and fell… how I remember eating that big-ass crab in Rasa Pura… how I aced my exam in my favorite subject.
See, they’re not all about you. But I wanted you to listen.
Because I have more stories to tell you.
I have tons.
I have millions.
I have miles.
And I know that you have, too.
Just imagine.
This is just a fraction of my over-thinking, over-remembering, over-crying, over-feeling etc. self. Just imagine the stories that I haven’t told you, or anyone yet.
Just imagine.
And yet, these days, there’s just one story in my head. And it goes this way…
There’s this story of you and me. You love me, and I love you. No other words need be spoken. No stories need be told.
But see. I do not like this story. And just like any other story that I do not like, I remember it, embrace it like my life depended on it. I remember it, just like I do any other horrible story that affects me. And I cry. Like an idiot.
I do not like it, because I like to tell you more stories.
But like I fool, I force myself to like it, every single day… so I can tell to myself:
There’s this story of him and I.
When in fact there’s now none.
