An Author’s Note

The ink that flows from my pen spreads all over the sheets of paper I placed on my table, the only words decipherable are those that write of him. My feelings turn to letters, my thoughts turn to words. I free my mind and let the ballpoint trail through the first page of a thousand-paged book.

The introduction tells you how my mind perceived him to be. A becoming man. An exceptionally astounding creature. The epitome of how unfathomable perfection comes to life. The next pages indicate how a naïve young woman finally makes a single successful judgment after meeting the hero of the book. The pages also express stereotypical circumstances like how the world stops when I see him pass by, how many sleepless nights I have had are spent thinking of him, the overwhelming adrenaline rush I feel in my body whenever his name pops up in my caller ID, and all of those that would seem too long to disclose one after another. As one would read through, the desperation of the writer becomes more and more overpowering. The story of how they finally involved themselves in a relationship and everything in between, the things every girl would dream of are established. This includes him throwing rocks outside her window, how he takes her to inexpensive yet very opulent-looking places, the way his hands fit hers, how most of her smiles, laughter and emotions are exclusive to only him. As the story goes on, she fell deeper than her heart would care to let her and for the first time in a very long time, she gave someone the ability of destroying her, not minding the innumerable times of betrayal and weariness she had experienced. Their story eventually becomes more sentimental. She showed him the deepest of scars within her, the absence of light in her life, how she was stuck on the same page over and over again, and how he changed all of these. To him, breaking her heart is now easier than it ever was.

Delinquency then kicks in. Denouement was nowhere to be found. The darkness he hid behind his light was now obvious. Her book changed context. The pages are now withering. The words flowed, and so did the tears from her eyes. This is the part where source of her exuberance has left without any explanation, without any consolation. The only things left were a pile of depressing memories, the lies within his words, and a broken soul. Her greatest fear is now; this is when the evil twin of the happiness he causes her reveals itself. Time tried to heal the wounds present in her heart, and she convinced herself that she is over him, that the memory of him will remain in the past and that her present and her future will be untouched by his lingering thoughts. And then she saw him with another girl. The sight was so excruciating she felt like a helpless piece of paper torn bits by bits. Being the writer she is, she came running home, completely allowing everything to be out of sight and just grabbed a pen and the book that stayed empty the day he left.

This writing is the product of the mischief of a man too deceptive to predict. He is no longer at my side, and he probably never will be again. That may seem too evident to point out, but it is not at all factual. He is not on my side, but he is on the deepest of my thoughts, my emotions, and everything there is. He stays here, he always will. He lives on the deepest parts of me.

I write because he exists.