Writings from my Van Gogh Moleskine

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Nightingale

February 27, 2010

When I wake from this dream, I know that what I have dreamed was too beautiful, too perfect to settle into the reality of my world and life which I dance through.

I peer out pass my curtains and see the violet dusk of twilight.

Oftentimes it seemed like I was near the seashore watching the sun setting, looking past the ocean to see what seems like a long-drawn fire across the sky with heaps of black, deep red and wisps of yellow and orange cracking, surrounding.

I touch the pane of my window, trace the imperfections and the tiny cracks etching through the lines, feeling the cold from the outside pouring into my fingers.

As I take in this scenery, a scenery I call my own, I think of you.

You, the one who never left my mind. You, the one that I think of every moment of my waking hour and when I breathe, when I close my eyes and let out the slow whisper of your name.

You, that appears whenever I glance at everything that penetrates of life, where I instantly feel your caress, your voice, your eyes gazing back intensely at me.

Too far have we gone and not see the light sink in. I often wonder how nothing ever seems to last and that we have all gone down that path before where we find ourselves glancing at the other side of the mirror, wondering how we arrived there in the first place.

When I look up, I see the tiny buds on the tree. I reach out and wrap my hand in its entirety, thinking if I held one part of the branch, I would somehow feel its pulse, its long drawn affair of life coursing through its veins, its sigh.

And when night falls, I think of our conversations. The one where even years afterward, it would still wound around my head. Because it was the kind that only came from you. Because you were the only thing that mattered to me in this world, in this lifetime.

I look up to the dark sky and see the bright glow of the moon, its light basking on my face.

I breathe in the scent of night air and it carries the promise of peace, of reflection, of dreams.

And when I lie on the grass, I think how much I wished I could have been the one who saved you. I wished so hard that it bit into the very portion of my heart.

And it was then that I remember.

I remember that morning when you called me darling and when you said that you loved me. How that word seeped into my skin, intoxicating me with that electrifying warmth, his everlasting warmth.

In return, I whispered back those eight final words which lasted for an eternity:

"I hope we can always feel this way."

(Note: images were from courtesy of Tumblr)

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