My Last Resort
- Anya Mynorka Ileto
- Jan 27, 2017
- 3 min read
Every sweet word marked as you whispered it into my ears.
Just by listening, I found myself falling slowly, slowly, slowly.
Love letters sent by you to me was a lovely gesture, I suppose.
Every sentence formed was a candy-coated treat a kid would never hesitate to accept.
The taste left something surreal, nothing but heavenly paradise.
Every love song reflected on our favorite romantic movie we watched.
But I suddenly remember that we did not, not even once.
The harmonic tonality, with amatory lyrics combined, rhythm and blues.
It was all in my faded fantasies.
Pieces of our memories together drowned me late at night.
I thought and told myself that it was only anxiety attacks. I was wrong.
Overthinking only led to hallucinations. A ghostlike you. My unremovable past.
I guess memories do not always soften with time.
Some grow edges like knives.
Down the lane of brokenness, I wanted escape.
This might be one of the reasons I urged myself to write.
Not only because of you or the pain you caused.
Not because of the bitterness and my taking a leap of faith impeded.
No. Please do not get me wrong.
It is not because I want you back and I cannot love somebody else.
I took the blame and swallowed our chaotic mess.
You of all people must have known that.
The pain died long ago.
Hear my thoughts.
1.
There are times life can be so fair and harsh; myriad of ups and downs in between.
It actually is when we talk about love. Life happened and distributed fairly.
When we love, we ache. When we ache, we find refuge.
When refuge is found, we reconcile. When we reconciled, we love again.
Without it, life is safe, but not worth bothering with.
Human beings are lucky and unfortunate to experience it.
2.
A daring truth, mixed with feelings undeniable.
That is, our heart has strings more elastic than we think.
It can forgive, transform and grow from where we are standing now.
The emotions felt are inexplicable and beautiful form of madness, an art.
3.
Poems and proses, novels and fictions. Those that tell stories about love.
Unrequited or not, tragic or happy endings; these are inspirations to hope.
Just by reading, I found myself falling again, hopefully, hopefully.
"Maybe you and I were meant to meet and be completely strangers when parted."
Said by many, admitted by some, and accepted by few.
"Our short story was not regretful nor sorrowful. It was just not meant to last long."
Not longer than a book with hundred pages,
not entertaining to continue its series,
and not even colorful enough to produce a film.
A story meant not to be told.
Yet, here I am writing. I constructed sentences that contained the word 'you.'
For anyone, it could be a particular person from the past, present and future.
Someone that used to be, is, and will be, treated exceptional.
For me, it is just a mere imagination, my false intuition and most asserted ambition.
I know reality. I recognized it faster than any one can. I sensed its arrival.
We have met before, fought and dealt one another.
Tonight, we are in a head-to-head meeting.
4.
Papers and inks used, hard and soft bound covers of books I owned, sat on my shelf.
I read it all, twice and more.
They gave me some place to go when I have to stay where I am.
I often wonder if I can publish one, or meet my best-loved authors.
I wondered for how many times.
Once I was curious if other curious souls have the same taste as mine.
Maybe we will meet from another time, another bookstore, or maybe not.
In a lifetime, there is a sixty percent with a chance of scattered maybes.
I wrote again. When in doubt, I write more.
I published several for the time being, and some kept in drafts.
In every love poem I had read, I saw myself in spaces between words.
I met other people there, too.
And for every page turned, proses were typed and captured me once more.
Here I found sanctuary.
I see myself in every author and poets I came to know.
5.
No one knows me better but myself.
I am both selfless and selfish; a confusion of me being good at loving and leaving.
Half of my life, I spent it with fragments of myself and the things I left behind.
Thereafter, I waited for the seeds to grow.
I watered it, not knowing the drought was already on its way.
You can say, you are too.
6.
I will write again.
A poem, prose, or short stories.
If not, I will make excerpts.
Maybe today, tonight or tomorrow.
Whether the sun rises or sets,
when the sky is quiet, and when birds start to sing,
when lightning strikes, and thunders growl,
whether the weather is too hot or too cold,
I am going to ponder.
Then again, please do not get me wrong.
I am writing for a purpose. For myself.
To let go of toxic made up on my mind.
To let past be past,
present be cherished,
and future be awaited.
To let ideas flow,
and let hope control.
This is somehow my last realistic and romantic resort.
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