Something Dear

My current existence in a peaceful residence since I was born had left me prone to be exposed to progressive changes. Changes are everywhere; friends started to move out, relationships were falling apart, families reunions weren’t as delightful as they used to. I am the living witness of memories, I was a part of it. As sunsets walked, time never stopped, and then I started to change; not necessarily out of my desire, but just because I was made to.

— we all are, aren’t we?

Even so, I kept telling myself I should let something be unchanged; as a reminder, a pathway, a memorabilia to keep me company in the future journeys; the bizarre, frightening, and euphoric ones.

I choose writing to be that something.

Not pictures, as some may say pictures paint a thousand words.

Paintings or pictures or sculpture may project moments, but words — words never fail to possess those who choose to be possessed. As the era gradually passes by, pictures might be left in a sold out house, or brought away to the deepest ocean, but words — once one writes, it stays there. Once one reads the joint words of a possessed writer, words stay there, nowhere but the deepest of subconscious; heart, mind. Words irradiate a sense of longing which I have learnt for over the years to be something that remains unchanged, it stays truthful.

So I let myself dive into endless thoughts about regrets, sorrow, pain. And then before I know it I’m left wondering about the excitement of dreams, happiness, love. The people around view me as a living soul who speaks the coldness of a Winter and emits sounds of warmth in the Summer. Now I’m okay with the changes, unlike what I used to be, because as long as I have something dear to keep me in place, I am all good.

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