I have an entire universe built inside my head.
As I grew bigger, older in the past 25 years, so did it.
It’s one I choose to live in,
rather than the one I have to live.
My universe is one with endless possibilities.
I run around town in my underwear, wrapped in a hooded jacket that would fit my entire family.
I write for a living, but not in the conventional way we know.
I write and write for days. My creativity flows with inserts of genuine soul in them, they make young girls look in the mirror twice and grown men cry.
People consume my writing like a cars consume fuel and thus, giving me life. Life for my body, life for my spirit.
In the universe we all share, as you know, I also write. I am a writer who have sold 3 books, one of which made its way into the national best-seller list.
My freelance writings are often hidden, as I’m also a ghost writer of some sort.
I write for money, not for a living. Contrary to popular belief, money does not give me life. It lets me buy expensive things and gradually pay for this downtown loft apartment in New York, the best state of all.
But it doesn’t give me life, not to my body, not to my soul.
That is, until I met you.
You are not the reason I am alive, nor that you give me a life at all,
but you fired a flame inside me,
and I lit up from within,
resulting in the flush of colour you see ever-so-slightly on my cheeks every time I see you.
I was alive,
just like that, you had fired up the rusty engine within me.
But this is the universe we’re talking about, not mine.
It has its own algorithms to how connection works, it has its hidden agendas and conspiracies.
It brings people together, just to pull them apart in the end,
it brings us to the top, only to slam us back down.
It brings happiness to us, for us to find how shortly it would last
and how abruptly it would end,
forcing us to recover from the damage, three times longer than the time we got to savour such happiness.
When we spent that night devouring an assortment of street food and talking about politics, I couldn’t help but think how fast you will be gone from my life.
In my universe, nothing could ever be good enough to pull us away from each other. Plain and simple.
In this one, though, I am not the master of my on fate.
We’re meant to love, not to last
written on June 6, 2018.