maybe she

She is the reason why I started writing again.

The reason why words fall through as i type blogs and crap, in the hope that she might be reading my works. or even status messages.

 

But as i cross the phase of "is the reason why" to "was the reason why"... before everything becomes past tense, i tried to ask myself, why did it get me here anyway? It's a long, long, shot, but why did i let the dice roll?

 

And right then an there, i found two words that explained everything

 

FALSE HOPE

 

I clinged to the hope, no matter how small, because of one thing - because it gets me through the day.

She was my Sunrise and Sunset. That a nonsense text from her would make me jump up and down. That a smiley from her reply would make me smile the world away. She was this false illusion of the possibility that maybe I could be better. The hope that the story God has written has finally arrived. I loved every moment of it. Even though I knew it was a lie. That asking for a chance is impossible in the first place.

 

For a split second, I considered that statement, "Maybe, She." Maybe she could be that someone I wrote god-knows-how-long-ago who will make all promises worth keeping, all tears worth shedding, and all the rest of life worth living. That someone that would trump all the ones before her, that would make me thank every heartache i've had, every mistake, and every bad move,  because it all ultimately lead to her. I considered asking myself that maybe she's that She....

 

...and then, I woke up. And got to my senses. And reality crept in... That not all falling stars fall for you. And it's just really time to wake up, and recalibrate....

 

 

 

 

So tonight, I'll be resting my case. I am formally giving up. Giving up that affair that didn't even happen in the first place. Better this, maybe, than too late. Better pull myself out before i get engulfed by the quicksand. Tonight, I'll lay the fantasy to rest, and close a book of empty hopes and just be thankful of the words that's been woven because of her. Of the poetry she'll never get to read. Of the story that existed only inside one's Hippocampus riding in the highway of Papez, back and forth, back and forth, until it made me believe.

 

Of that "Love" that she never heard about, and probably never will.

 

Now, I'll be hoping of another story. The one where She is not in it, but a better She. That one who will make what I am and will ever be. That one where Hope will never be false, and no bit of doubt will ever stain Her and I. Ever I, Ever You, and Ever We.

 

 

All I have to do, is to Believe