Secret

You know, people often keep private or hidden from people’s eyes the things that are special or matter the most to them. Like, let’s say, a pearl in an oyster. I mean, how often do you see an oyster flailing about in flares, showing off? A pearl is kept well hidden.

For a while, we became our little secret– just you and me. It’s almost as if we are just reluctant to share each other,

to anybody, anything.

We became each other’s obsession, sweet possession,

in a way we just want to enjoy ourselves

for ourselves

to ourselves.

So we kept us hidden– just you and me,

the two of us.

And you, my dear, become this sweet little secret I carry with me everyday.

“It’s not us against the world, you know,” I said, “I’m beyond the point of caring what the world has to say anyway.

This– me– just wants to be with you.”

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“And Then Being In Love”

It was a bright afternoon as we laid the picnic mat on the grass. The sun was out and you thought it would be a perfect afternoon to be out, and also to cure that writer’s block of mine.

It has been about three months of an endless writer’s block, the longest streak I have had in months. Long hours of chasing tight deadlines in my consulting day job has rid me of all the energy and mood to catch the end tails of inspirations like how I would normally start my writing process, all that’s left are patches after patches of scorching dryness, void of inspirations.

“You know, Lang Leav said that missing someone could be the best thing for a writer,” I said as we were sitting down. “And you know what I think she missed? I think falling in love might just be the most terrible thing that could happen to a writer. Aggravating, agonizing. I could go on and on. It’s terrible.”

“What, how come?” You gave me a curious look, like a little schoolboy confused at why he has to go to school on Monday morning, tilting your head sideways– almost too naive.

You leaned in to grab the can of cashew nuts we had just bought earlier. You opened it and offered the can to me so I could have some. I took one and continued on with the point I was making.

“Yeah, like, you can’t think of anything else but that person. It’s brutal, the death of all other facets of inspirations. Life suddenly becomes all about romance, all shades and layers of it, like you’re stuck with this rose-tinted glass in front of your eyes. And it’s not that you can’t try to think about anything else, it’s just that you would rather not. That’s what scares me, you know. Being a writer, and then being in love.”

You listen much too patiently while chewing on cashew nuts, much like how you munch on popcorn while watching your favourite movie. I take that cue to go on, “And perhaps it’s not just about romance, but it just becomes… love. Everything becomes about love. And then there’s that sense of control.”

“What about it?”

“You just lose it.”

And then you laughed, the kind of laugh that makes my stomach do multiple flips. In an instant, my heart races and my cheeks flush. If only you knew, this is what I am so afraid of. This, what you are doing to me.

“You know, for a writer, you are such a romantic,” you joked sarcastically, “and besides, don’t let that fear get in the way. You may be right that falling in love may just be the most terrible thing for a writer, but think about it, through its depth, you’ll dive into other dimensions that you otherwise will not even have the chance to know of. I think you’re only afraid of being dependent on that one person, but it doesn’t have to be. Just because someone brings you to a door does not mean that you have to rely on them to open the door and take you by the hand to explore, now does it?”

“Well, I guess not. But still, it screws up your brain somehow.” At this rate, I know I was just being impossible.

“Ally, the stubborn one. I understand, falling in love may not be a choice. Before you even realise it, when you’ve fallen, you’ve fallen. That’s a done deal, you don’t get to choose who, what, or when to love. But, you do get to choose what to do with it. I mean, even life from A to Z, in itself, is a choice. So, Ally, don’t let this falling-in-love crap dictate on whether or not you’ll be a kickass writer– because you are, be it in love or out of love, sad or happy, you name it.” You winked.

Choice, hey? Looks like I have made my choice today– or perhaps, in itself, I don’t have a choice.

I have fallen madly in love with you.

And in that moment, an inspiration came floating by– of something I still know not of yet, but something that feels like it comes with a promise.

“What’s that smirk you got on your face there?” You asked, curious, propping yourself up, eyes brimming with excitement.

“Well what do you know? I think I’m about to catch the end tail of what may be coming in a bit.”

No More Questions

“Are you afraid of losing me?” I began to ask.

“All the time,” he answered, “every single day.”

His eyes looked down, as if embarrassed at his blatant outburst of honesty.

“How come?” I asked again, a little impatient this time.

He sighed.

“Because,” he paused, his eyes searching for mine, “that’s just the way it is.”

Oh.

No more questions.