My eyes are glued on him, among the dreams moving slowly far away amidst the isolated space. Breezes fly playfully on the water surface that is glistening with the melting piece of moon, on the shadow of his back as they are piercing through a wandering ghost hanging in the air. I cannot reminisce his face so clearly to wake my own imagination up, how much I wish I had carved onto my mind more of him, but my remembrance is nothing different from a creasy discolored paper sheet from a diary not touched for years.
I decided to stop staring outside, stepping inside my tent. This place is a hill slope, thin woods and almost near to the city, so I do not need to catch some fire to threaten the wilds. Also, since the flame so usually unintentionally makes the phantasm flicker in the foggy numbing night. That triggers him to run away to his nowhere dimension again. I wriggled in the tent, listening to the breath of night lost between the infinite sound of insects and frogs echoing beside my ears. For some moments, I think I had heard his voice calling me 5 years ago.
I lit up the ivory drawing paper with the oil lamp, sharpening my pencil on the sheet full of scribbles and sketches, one of which I always hope would be his face. But turned out all were nothing but the black and grayish stains pressured on the threadlike paper, without any familiar feelings. Wind is still whining outside the fabric, there suddenly came the bubbling sound of fish under water that I am about to assume was the dropping moon’s splatter. It has been so long I have not heard that splatter on my cheeks. If only I could, but no, the crystal drops seem to have abandoned my eyes ever since a forgotten jiff, they dried out to be tons of stones weighing on my heart. I am seeking for him, with a bleeding core and arid eyelashes, while rummaging my faint memory about a time when someone voiced up a plea to not leave that one.
He has gone for 5 years, as he vanished, disappeared completely into somewhere invisible among the various visibles of the love land, to where he dreamt of traveling. I also question myself for what reason I have to hold forever on a physique that even I can not remember, a person whom I can not choose a proper appellation to talk about him. The time I have spent on finding him is 20 times greater than the time he spent on being with me, too long and too short to recall things having happened within honesty. Or else did he go to the scene he had been longing for? A heavenly scene where my existence does not exist, however, his waiting does? How many questions were put down still then forgotten, because the butterfly constraining his legs already took its flight to that land along with him, the land about which I have no clues.
Apparently, it is midnight, the rustles of the nocturnal species keeps sounding clearer and clearer, notwithstanding, from an extreme afar rebounding an unsure voice. Having tossed and turned for a while, I am eventually walking out. He and I had passed here some times for camping. He said he had loved that place as if it was part of his heart, as if it was one of the strongest strings tying him tightly to this world. Since it gave him the most indelible experiences in a lifetime that he thought he would have never been able to feel them once more. The experiences with me were wonderful, additionally, peripheral. I knew it so well that he would just find his way back to the bygone flow, that one day the time being or the future would no longer matter, what would matter is whether he could dive exactly into the evocation he wanted or not. Now see, I am staying at his beloved slope like a hard-headed, awaiting any signs of his return desperately, although sometimes I try to convince myself if he did come back to his desired past, it would still be alright. But tell me, why does 3 months appear to be too long to learn acceptance?
I am heading to the sky so high above, the sparkling points on and off look how heartbreaking. Other than, did he step on the stars and the magnificent universe he never ceased to love? The spring beside is streaming slowly, down to the lake which is embracing the fallen light. Whether he deposited his silhouette beneath this flow? And is that moonshine blurring him by chance? But on rainy nights, the moon does not seem to fall and he does not seem to reappear. Wandering breeze takes turn to dash, I am repeatedly curious about the possibility of him turning himself to wind so that he can gallivant around the globe to the places he wished to be at? Nevertheless, the wind is cold while he was warm, wind causes me tremor while he protected me. Fairly, once in a while I curled up in his arms with my soul sobbing, I could not know it was me whom he was cuddling or a foregone unbeknownst to me. The question marks dazzlingly conquer me for many nights long, every time I contemplate the scenery in silence and feel pity for an unnamed adoration.
They said just forget it all and move on with your life, even so, I could not resist the breathtaking urge to seek for him. Undone things will be missed ever after, and without a day on which I forgot to light up the altar in my depths. Such an extent that I can not figure out if it was him or me to make me this persistent. I assumed everything would be so trustless, yet the illusion was relentless beyond my expectation. All I am chasing and digging in now, is not separate from an endless paranoid of a person finding out his happiness 5 years ago and is chilling his head in the silky hair ocean of another figure. I have persuaded myself to buy those forced thoughts so that I could have given up on him. And afterwards, I am drowning deeper into this clueless investigation, seeing as I did not want to believe. My subconsciousness is an inherent value, it is sober and keeps reminding me of him whenever I nearly cut off my illusionary pipe dream.
One day, if ever sky landed on ground
Would the stars be sparkling around
Would you find me within the chaos
Would we dance upon all of these clouds?
Would the love ever give its sound
Or silence would still shout out loud
In the ruins, would there be a sprout
Or the rain would pull us deep down?
I am mumbling the apathetic words, tempting to anticipate that by the day my everything rots, he will still be thought to be at that far. He has been so tenacious like how he was before, meanwhile I have not changed my stubbornness yet.
Right here at this vastly empty space, I still cannot help thinking of him, although it was me to see him standing there in the brief visit from a shooting star 5 years ago.
Guess I have been living in words that I have understood constantly,
they had been neither written nor spoken to me.
..................................................................................................................
My drawing based on my poem above.
Thanks for your reading. I wish all of you a life full of joys ahead.
I won't lie, I expected a story but I got more. I got a peek at some of the things seldom spoken of, and I'm glad to have stumbled upon your blog post.
Your writing soars here, @sapphireissafy. There is an unreasonableness to attachment. It has nothing to do with the thing we miss. It has everything to do with our experience of that thing.
Will the author ever be free of the longing? Perhaps the memory is so precious that it's worth the pain to hold onto it. Perhaps letting go will be the greatest loss.
Thanks for sharing the remarkable piece with us.
This was beautiful 🤧
Thank you ❤️
Exquisite. You capture the universal experience of longing, an experience most of us cannot share with others, but you manage somehow to do that. We have all been there: loss and memory not holding on and not letting go. There is an obstinance of the lingering sense of someone, or someplace. Haunting, poignant, comforting, painful.
You have written a most wonderful piece, @sapphireissafy. Thank you for sharing it with us.
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It's a good story, congratulations