Yours sincerely, the ocean
(snippets of old diary pages)
she said it was just another autumn day. a golden haze of dust that came at nighttime to choke you. the dazing dirt dust fleeting, leaving a baby behind. the baby was almost as crisp as the leaves that crackled a hundred times before they were gone for good. she said she wanted to hold her baby so dearly close that it would never need for it another time, but she was too tired. too dizzy, she said. it was the time of year when everything was too fragile. even the baby.
i.
my dear child of autumn,
22 years have passed;
we are now big
and bold and still wish that we
always had.
the year blooms green then it glows
red, and before it sinks into the
blur of blue, it shrinks back to
a barren brown. but we only reside
in the echoing October. a foggy layer that
hangs in the air. a land of
orchestral rustling and dying
confetti. all away
from seeing the sky.
dear 7 year old me,
admire less how leaves drop
in fall, and jump around just a
little more. i wish you wrote
down the meaning of
happiness for i need to remind
you sometime.
you used to run
carefree on the damp ground
where those once-high leaves
ended up yearly. by nighttime
you bored your Ma with
questions of how God looked
like and why we
grew up. you’ll
grow up
knowing less of God
and more of dreams.
remember when you
scribbled down
“life is a dream” and you
cared less to add more?
ii.
dear 10 year old me, crying
yourself to sleep won’t help
your Ma keep a steady breath. your fingers won’t
do the job of pacemakers, your prayers
will seldom be answered.
i wish
you kept running wild and free in spite of
everything, but instead
you curled up, watching the other
kids spinning around
and grabbing your purple pen
you wrote down that
“some birds just do not
fly.”
iii.
dear 12 year old me, stop
waiting. don’t jump at every
doorbell ring. co-existence is
an apple buried in the crispy yellow, where
there will always be
worms. your Pa won’t make it this time. so,
don’t waste
time denying for it was
not just a nightmare. it was the yawning
mouth of darkness that devoured
and swallowed your hero away. now you
care enough to add that “death
is when we wake up” with water
almost drowning ‘death’ in a shallow
hole on a worn, thick-of-age
notebook paper.
iv.
dear 13, 14, and almost 15
year old me, i wish i could push
you forward, or maybe even down
stairs so you
w a k e u p
your soul grew too heavy for
you, and it drags you
d
o
w
n.
all the time. you’re like a stone, cold
and still at the bottom
of a deep blue river
that never stops
flowing.
stop
counting the words you utter
per day. you write the things
you cannot say for the people
you’ll never have (again). you spend
the nights away wondering about
the void you feel in your bed,
in your arms, inside of you. a thick
frost that the lights – not even the
sun – could never burn. i wish i could
answer you. i wish i could
hold you.
but i still can’t.
i should also mention that
the bathtub is
not your bed and that lungs burning
is not the right way to
breathe.
so stop.
stop.
v.
dear 17 year old me, now that you’re floating
half-breathing, you made friends,
many, but they will
leave you mid-way, i’m sorry.
people tell you you’re a ******,
but you’ll know who you are.
you’ll know.
you were just another introvert
but they’ll never understand
and you will live to prove
the world that success doesn’t
need noise. silence is bronze,
silver, and gold. a lull doesn’t impede
a war to break. you’ll live
even when you’re
“an island.”
you’ll dance even
when you’re “a wallflower.”
22 years have passed,
my dear child of autumn,
you piece words together and let
your darker side spill
into the-once-blank papers
just so you feel like freeing,
flying. just to make room for
a deep well of relief
within you
amongst the million, million shades
of void.
now that you
don’t shut your eyes
when you cross the road.
now that you
are silent but
not just smoke.
quiet, but not
cold.
now that you
are born to live
and not to die
now that you
glow inside
out.
now that you
look the way you
really are.
write that down.
for you may need it
sometime.
she said it was just another autumn day. as soon as the sun rose, it took a long nap beyond the clouds. the sun never waved goodbye before slipping into the unknown. autumn gave birth to a fragile little thing, and i couldn’t tell if its heart was beating in time with mine. i just watched the baby from a distance. as if through old dusty glasses, the world was in slow motion. the world was distant. desperate. vague. even the baby.
The length was not intended, the lowercase writing was.
This just felt like writing a diary, maybe because I used some sentences from old diary pages. Maybe because it's for me. I like to write in lowercase when it's personal. It feels like it's a part of a big whole. Like there is no actual beginning and no actual end. I think I should apologize for these two things. Length and lowercase writing.
I should also mention that when I included colors, I actually related to the seasons. I just thought it might lead to misunderstaning.
I never thought it would feel this amazing. I should thank you for this.
