(Lovesick) Writer’s Block

I look at the way you write in your blog and it leaves me in amazement and wonder (every time I visit it). How you pour your mind and heart into prose so eloquently at times, I feel a little embarrassed for not having been able to pen my thoughts as consistently. Do you ever face moments when you feel like there is so much you want to put down into words, all that you saw, tasted, smelled, breathed, heard and felt – that when you actually get around to sitting down to pen these thoughts, they never ever come out quite as easily as they came to you?

I do. All the time.

Somehow, when you are busy trying to find the right words to frame these thoughts, very much like picking the right brush or pen, the right ink and shade of colour to tell your story in a the same light as it first came to you – you are paralysed by some subconscious mental mechanism of rusty locks, grimy gears, worn pulleys and creaky valves that somehow refuse to allow these thoughts and emotions to flow into words.

Maybe I imposed these locks and valves on myself because I am afraid that the words themselves would not do justice to my thoughts, emotions and experiences.

Maybe I just need to stop worrying and start writing whatever it is that comes to mind.

Especially since its already been two hours since I sat down at my Me Time cafe and after much dalliance (catching up on emails and social media networks, in between), this is all that I managed – a couple of paragraphs ranting about my inability to express myself (the irony!).

I think a lot about you.

I think a lot about you and me.

About Us.

At times I worry that I may have allowed myself to indulge in these thoughts a little too much that it makes me wonder if this is considered unhealthy.

Or inappropriate.

Or bordering on obsessive.

I can hear all these imaginary voices (proclaiming themselves to be Reason, Logic and Pragmatism) telling me things like I should be focusing on work, on myself, that I am putting too much of myself into this “unnecessary distraction” called relationship, that I am becoming emotionally dependent on someone else again, that I am going to repeat my mistakes in the past and I am bound to get myself burned by the end of this sensory illusion we call love, that asdfkjdfooijvioawjue9irjeiofgnwuhfe *insert gibberish* … and so on and so forth, basically forewarning myself that I will eventually regret all that I am doing (indulging) in now.

Not a stranger to any of these thoughts, though. They float up to my head ever so often, I know them even before they are fully formed in my head.

I also know for a fact, I won’t be taking heed of any of these so-called words of advice my head is dispensing to my heart. Not anytime soon. Its kind of like having a naggy mother in your head, looping like a broken record.
But there is a reason why I am not taking my own subconsciously self-dispensed advice so seriously.

I believe that feelings, as temporal, volatile and impermanent as they can be – they matter a lot to me. You know that saying – “Its the thought that counts.”? And the opposing statement – “Actions speak louder than words.” I believe both statements hold true except that every action has to begin with a thought, an intention. And that, I believe, is the very source of feelings. I think actions are not as powerful without a person feeling strongly about what they are doing. Sure, there are moments when you have to be detached from your feelings in order to carry out an action well but there, in place of feelings, is the intention, no? Thoughts, feelings, intentions, they go hand-in-hand. They drive our actions, every flex of our muscle.

Or maybe I am getting all of this wrong because I am too muddle-headed and up to my neck in my own feelings to give a neutral and objective overview on the subject matter.

And so this is where I usually stop trying to think or justify both ends of the argument (was there one to begin with? ’tis is all just an internal monologue, no?) because I don’t have a point to prove.

I don’t need to.

I don’t have anyone to prove anything to.

At the risk of sounding almost as though I am closing my mind off to reason and logic or whatever other forms of thinking that exist but really, I like my feelings as they are.

Raw.

Un-refracted by mental processes.

Flowing, as they should be.

Like the ink and colour that you helped me lay, stroke after stroke, on my canvas of Life.

Biologists and psychologists may see them as spikes or dips in hormonal secretions, and a nasty concoction whose portions are depicted by an amalgamation of many different curved lines on a graph – quite plainly, like as though we were nothing more than bio-mechanical bodies subject to the variances of the bio-chemical substances within.

Come. On.

We were all made to be so much more than just molecules being catalysed.

And Life has a love story to tell that is far more beautiful than scientists trying to decide whether our ligands match.

A Canvas colored by emotions derived from experiences.

Life is an Art class and I am more than happy that we are sharing colour palettes now, dipping our brushes in each others’ mix of colours of emotions. Our story, our experiences, beautiful paintings.

North

…is the name of the Matchbox Twenty album you got me – the first gift from you since the night we first kissed and held each other to sleep on the couch.

Funny thing is that Codex is now playing on my phone as I type this on the miniature on-screen Qwerty keyboard of my phone whilst you are probably drifting off into dreamland back in your apartment, on the bed where we were huddled together, just last night.

I still remember that evening in the car as I fetched you to the airport after work. You were wearing that sleek black dress and heels that you always rocked so well. There was a coy little note from you in the CD sleeve. That went something like “this is a widdle sumtink for your car when you have to choose between radio static and One Direction on the radio. Loved the car rides. Merci pour tout”, if I did not recall wrongly, that was the gist of the note. I remembered because I read that little note several times and looped the CD almost ad infinitum in my car after that.

It was a simple gift yet it felt like there was so much more meaning to it. The fact that it was carefully chosen over Radiohead’s latest album because you were unsure as to how receptive I would be to Radiohead, but at the same time, you did not choose something else like Maroon 5 or Incubus, that may have seemed like a more typical or generic choice for someone who just started getting to know me better. There was a lot of heart and thought that went into picking this CD. As with almost everything else about you, everything else that you do.

There is so much heart and thought that comes from you that its hard to not feel you and be amazed by you as a person. You are, in every sense of the world, substantial, as unromantic as this particular term may sound, I would raise Shakespeare from the dead to find a more aesthetically pleasing yet accurate depiction, but voodoo I know not and hence I will have to make do.

I ramble. A lot. When it comes to you, I am nothing more than a captivated befuddled fool whose heartstrings are now in your hands – between those careful, nimble, smooth fingers of yours, I am a willing, surrendered captive heart.

Sweet cheese and corn, you may say, with mush on the side. Though I guess there is no helping that the way you make me feel fuels me this way, as embarrassing as it may seem at times. I feel like I put the lyrics to The Cardigan’s Lovefool to shame with my lovesick prose.

I am happy and deliriously in love with you. I guess that makes up for everything, right?

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Oh, here it is! As it turns out, I did take a photo of the note! Haha, well like I said earlier, I remembered the gist of it.