Nothing like silence to make the voices in your head audible, eh? Nothing like silence to stir your thoughts, nothing like silence that asks and beckons – why? Nothing like silence to remind me of failure. Nothing like silence to remind me of you.
Nothingness and silence. I used to think that they stood hand-in-hand, that one meant calling the other. I believed that in nothingness there is silence, and that silence necessitated a nothingness, the absence of sounds. Boy, I could never have been more mistaken. I’ve listened to voices that filled the air. The voices felt like nothing. They meant nothing to me. Meanwhile the silences I immersed myself into were loud with inconvenient truths.
This absence of sound is making me suffer. But it isn’t as easily solved by something as simple as covering my ears. Whatever torments me is within me, and I cannot do anything about it, really. It is a miserable situation to be in.
Not a single sound in this room.
Not a single sound outside of the room.
But I am hearing everything I don’t want to know.
Whenever I am happy, I do not write – I stay in the moment for as long as it lasts, and I do not write. Writing would do an injustice to the experience; attempting to use words to describe it would have the effect of diminishing it. Instead, I try to remember every detail and sensation. I grasp at these whenever I feel lonely, and I try to sustain and recall how I felt in those moments. But often the now-incomplete, fragmented images last for mere seconds.
Whenever I am lonely, I write. Writing becomes my catharsis, a channel of expression, and a channel for expression. I push my pen on paper in the direction of my experiences, taking extra care to write down every single detail. It is a metaphorical confession – I confess my sins to paper, the gravest of which involve my love for her. I give it a detailed explanation of events, from how-we-mets to what-we-dids to what-went-wrong and but-I-still-love-hers. Anything that I fail to write down consistently turn into intrusive dreams and thoughts. There will be no absolution for what I am trying to hide.
Why do I write? I write to remember.
But I write, hoping to forget.
I often find myself wishing that we met under different circumstances. Right now, I am left helpless, helpless while watching him beside you. As much as I want to, telling you how important you are to me would be an indiscretion – it is as wrong as 1 and 1 put together being 3. The outside world sees everything differently, and rarely in favor of us.
And now I am stuck between two worlds, yours and mine.
In your world, I smile my brightest. Everything that I do has your happiness in mind. I hope you find some merit in my jokes. Whenever we’re together, I forget most of my problems, because they are temporarily solved by your presence.
And like all temporary things, I would inevitably have to return to my world.
In my world I contemplate your absence. I would try to find signs (“What did she mean by that?” or “Was that gesture meant to be a special one?”), and despair over how she responded to my subtle hints or displays of affection. Was her avoidance a gentle rejection? Was her dismissal in response to the underlying message of my statement? More questions than answers arise from these inquiries.
All of these would have been alright, honestly. I can get in and out of your world in a moment’s notice.
But as I arrived, I saw him.
And nothing hurts more than seeing someone else being regarded as the loved one’s other, even in jest. You cannot help but think that if he can only play his cards right, he would stand a better chance than you at this game. It hurts seeing that she loves him, and he loves her. And there is nothing you can do about that.