Never Love A Writer

Never date a writer for she will always remember all the things you did and did not do. She will also remind you of the things you should have done.  She might subtly convey the ideal man you never were. She will not ask you to be one, but she will always let you feel how much she wanted such a man. She will always remember how her heart almost jumped when you asked her on your first date. She will excite you with age-old books, great books murdered into movies, and heartfelt songs more than your next date. She will bore you with detailed narratives of what went wrong with her day and how her hope sank because of it.

She will laugh with you at your stupidest times, but she would love you just the same. She will never forget that first time you held her hand. All you’ve been through is shelved in her mind and carefully written on her notes. She will have her books. And her constant companion — notebooks with doodles of a funny version of you and your name beside hers. Random thoughts about you are carefully written on the margins of her books. Her hands will always be filled with blots of ink not nail polish and posh accessories. She might not have time to put on make-up just to be on time for a meeting because she has been engrossed into a literary masterpiece or some writing madness. She might even skip classes for it. But will always cope up. Her eyes will always be carrying those two bags. Yes, those two scary bags under her lovely eyes. Because she always gives liberty to her thoughts and emotions even if it’s already two in the morning.

She will always listen to your stories even if she finds it uninteresting. She will fake a smile and force herself to nod even if she wants to interrupt you and divert the topic. She will look at you in the eyes as if telling you that you are the handsomest man, but what truly occupies her thought was your wrong grammar spoken a minute ago. She will ask you to sit with her, not to be intimate but to explore the feeling of being close to someone so she could write about it. She will always remember how you leaned your face to hers, how you held her back, touched her lips, and felt the rush in heart. She will write a poem for you when she feels like, especially when you make her feel so loved, but more often when she’s down, miserable and vulnerable. She would always be thrilled to experience new things. It may be with you or without you.

She will fondly remember how you held her hand and awkwardly swayed into the music on your first dance. The way you look into her eyes is embedded in her memory. She will always recall how uneasy you were. She will always have that picture of you looking and admiring her from afar –how you can’t take your eyes off her. And on how you were mesmerized by her beauty on that white dress.

Never fall in love with a writer for you will never be the one thing in her mind. You see, she is enchanted by her thoughts, what comes into it, with hundreds of themes circling her brain, what literature to read, what to write, how to write, how to constantly combat the peculiarities of writing and living life. You might not just try to fall in love.

Take my heed, reader. Even if you fight, she will always be inspired. Her books are her constant companion. If she’s in the mood, she will write about what you argued. Or who knows she might even post it on her blog. Even if you don’t see often she will always suit herself in reading Tolkien, Garcia-Marquez, Neruda, Poe, O’Hara, Shakespeare or Austen. Even if you can’t help but flirt with other women, she will not nag you for doing so. Know that she is good at concealing her emotions and sealing her lips. She will always try to understand, but she will never tolerate.

Never love a writer for you might end up hurting yourself. She might have had imagined your engagement and wedding day. She might have led her mind on your vacation trips. She might have written chapters of your life together. She might have foreseen the two of you getting old. She might have envisioned you dying before her and overcoming loneliness. She might have, but that is all. For she will always be preoccupied of endless possibilities in the world, with or without you.

Never love a writer, lest she loves you more than her books, rich imaginations, impeccable skills, and passion. Never love a writer lest she tells you she is willing to spend the remaining half of her life with you. Never love a writer lest you know that deep within her heart, there is YOU.

But never fall out of love for her when you have at least one reason to love her . . . forever.


Strange Movie

“It sometimes feels like a strange movie, you know,

it’s all so weird that sometimes I wonder if it is really happening.”



I walk into the light

with no definite path

feet moving forward

with heart beating backwards.

Scenes from the past

wonders of the future

all intertwine

in this present time.

Footsteps, heartbeats,

perseverance, reluctance;

all in one trance.

A leap of faith,

a jump of joy,

a clap of praise,

a shout of victory;

all in one dance.

A part of my soul says Yes

the other says, Not yet

Cut into two,

divided into pieces;

all in one chance.

A journey too far,

a love to have,

 one lover to behold,

a life to live,

all will happen once.


Cafe Blues

As she was staring blankly on her laptop screen, she realized that she has been on that stillness for four minutes. I did not mind for I was comically caught up in a scene of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. She looked into her Caramel Macchiato, her favorite, and realized that it has lost its warmth. Disturbed by  her unlikely gestures and soft ramblings, I thought of what could be on her mind. I felt my heart saying, “It’s not what is on her mind but what is going on in her heart.” Before I was able to ask her, she looked into my eyes and started her monologue (as she always does).

I’ve been here couple of times already. This feeling of wanting to let someone dear to you just vanish. Yeah, vanish. Exactly. For years, he had been part of me. But now, I wanted to end everything.

Our love is boring. But as each time I ponder on what we’ve been through I feel like it’s not the distance nor the length of time we spent with each other. At the end of the day, it’s the depth of love we have.Tell me, can you really measure love? Or it’s just the intensity you feel for the one you love?

But I can still say that we had a great love. Our love once floated in the sky. It flew right on the clouds!

Now, we’re sinking in this deep blue underwater. He turned into this boring old man, or did I just realized it just now? PERHAPS I am the one who is all throughout senseless.

I wanted to dive in the deep, sink into the bottom ’til I die there. I want the seas to bury me deep along with all the memories of him in my head, all the emotions stuck in my heart.  Let the fishes  feast on every feeling. May the sands bury me and my love for him. The silent moonlit be the  only witness of this absurdity.

She lowered her voice looking forlorn and ended with these phrases:

When love’s like sinking underwater, there is only one thing left to do– LET GO.

The question is, can I really let go?

Finally I got the chance to speak and told her:

Is there a need to let go? How can you let go of someone dear to you? How do you let go from a cascading love? Maybe you just need to convince yourself, if not push a little more harder to REALLY LET GO.

She looked away with no intentions of answering back. She mused herself with the people passing by and slowly  drank her now cold coffee.  And so I relaxed on my seat and continued reading.