Nights in Neverland
Some time ago, my best friend and I were sitting on our favorite bench in the children’s playground in our subdivision when he posed a question I couldn’t quite forget. We were counting the people wearing red coats and I was down to zero because he kept saying there’s a difference with red and orange or some other weird shit we always conjure whenever we’re together, when out of the blue he went all, “Lea, what do you think happens to the great stories that are never told? You know, the kind that only the people involved knows about. That vital element in inside jokes and closet skeletons. That missing link detectives can’t figure out in a murder case. What happens? Do they disappear forever or does it, by some crazy catastrophic habit of the universe, happen again to other people and these new set of faces take the initiative to preserve that amazing story?”
He looked at me then and I could hear the words he didn’t say but his eyes clearly conveyed. A woman wearing a red coat passed by and even though his eyes never left mind he stated clearly and unwavering, ”That, sweetheart, is red.”
I smiled. Big, uncaring and goofy. We were on the same page, reading the same sentence and seeing the same word.
”Well, then, brace yourself. I shall write the greatest story the universe will never erase.”
He raised an eyebrow at that and gave me a knowing smirk.
I continued, “So that if it happens to another set of people, we’ll always know that we’re the first.”
Katie Melua - I’d Love to Kill You
When I was Seven and He was Eight
There was something incredibly nostalgic about the first time I walked inside a boy’s bedroom. And it wasn’t so he could turn off the lights and scatter our clothings on the dirty floor that was surprisingly not dirty at all. It wasn’t so we could trace forbidden lines and hide beneath the proverbial sheets—we were too young for that. His carpet was plain and brown that it almost blended with the wooden floor. There was a big window at the right side of his single bed. The sunlight streaming from the curtainless window was probably why the welcome plant and the three small cacti grew so well. And beside those greens was a big wooden desk scattered with pens, papers and notebooks. There was a bookshelf on the left side of the bed but there was no book at all. It was laden with action figures, toy cars, trophies of nameless competitions, a non-scientific calculator, a plastic ruler and a headless Barbie doll. My eyes didn’t move from the headless Barbie doll. I remember how he laughed when he noticed that and that was how I noted all the tiny shirts scattered on his messy bed, the leggo pieces I almost stepped on, the flamboyant grin on that boy’s face and the superman stickers on his closet. Years later, I would remember how I asked to use his bathroom and how he turned on and off the switch located outside the door and how I yelled at him to stop. Years later, that bedroom would be far different from the bedroom I had seen when we were too young to know. He would forget about the girl he gave the headless Barbie doll to. He would forget about the girl who watched him from her home’s gate. He would not remember how his room used to look. But I would. And as I watched him curl his index finger around a beautiful girl’s hair while he smoked a cigarette on the other hand, I can’t help but wish—that I was seven and he was eight. And that bedroom never changed.
❝ My heart didn’t break into a thousand pieces after he left. Instead, I realized all the things he didn’t do. He didn’t want to hear my stories. He didn’t ask me questions. He didn’t smile when I was talking to him. He didn’t hug me out of the blue to make me feel good. His hugs were always a preamble to something else and after he was gone, I wondered if he ever knew me at all. ❞
—— Diane Les Becquets (via silents
This is the chemical formula for love:
dopamine, seratonin, oxytocin.
It can be easily manufactured in a lab, but overdosing on any of them can cause schizophrenia, extreme paranoia, and insanity.
Let that sink in.
There’s a difference between somebody who wants you and somebody who would do anything to keep you.
❝ Forgiving isn’t something you do for someone else. It’s something you do for yourself. It’s saying, ‘You’re not important enough to have a stranglehold on me.’ It’s saying, ‘You don’t get to trap me in the past. I am worthy of a future. ❞
the “experience” project
All of a sudden you realize the people around you are talking of different things now. You’re still wondering what one plus one equals to but they’ve multiplied sixty nine with thirty-three eons ago. You’re still tracing the dots of a colorless picture but they’ve already shaped sculptures with their bare hands. All of a sudden you feel like a kid in an adult’s world and no amount of time can fix the gap. No amount of books, movies or stories can fix the rapidly growing barrier separating you from them. You wanted to get there so badly, you cheated. You created a bridge you couldn’t uncross. And years later, when time and longing has long consumed the desire and curiosity you had for what had once seemed unattainable, you look back at the other side of the bridge and wished you had spent more time enjoying what you had then. You wished there had been a catcher in the rye when you fell over the proverbial cliff and said goodbye to the endless and mindless world your youth gave you. You should have drank one instead of ten. You should have worn that long sleeve shirt instead of the black corset. You should have known the meaning of those words before you spoke them.
The smallest of decisions in our life are often irrevocable. And some things must stay the same even when the world tells you to change.