this man in my mind.

If you have spared a significant portion of your life loving or liking someone--liking if you’re one who agrees that the repressed and unilateral version of luurvveee is not in any form or manner, love-- in secret, then, you would understand that writing this is a necessary release. :)

Of late, I have been glaringly appreciating my ceiling: dirty and off-white. Aside from the obvious purpose it is serving, it constantly –evening and morning, sigh..- transforms itself into a clear, whitish canvass of the face that has been squatting my brain space for the last 5 weeks. Consequentially, ideas I need for my professional sustenance is hardly available. Banished it seems by this damn too imposing invader.

If you’re one who is not convinced that I abhor the feeling, then, I think you thought that what I really wanted to say was: “What a lovely invader he is!” :)

Terrible is my weakness for a man of the arts and letters. In his presence, I unwillingly succumb into form and manner alterations. My typical straightforward approach on things becomes straight-laced. It is not however to charm him into seeing one and only female form--me-- amidst the many ready and willing options, but, because being refined is I believe the way how a lady respects a gentleman.

The last statement may be fLawEd. But with a skin like mine, which takes a life of its own and instantaneously grows spikes whenever it feels an awaiting presence of a veiled vile creature—I am always ready to match a brute with as much brutish friendship. I have had this thinking way back when I realized that Reincarnation is true for vultures and beasts born into the human form. I am beginning to get scared of my own words!! Ha-ha-ha. But point is, this man in my mind or the idea of how he really is, makes me want to imagine how he talks of sensible things; to know his stand on life, love and death; to picture how he dreamily describes—and paints :) -- the beauty of seemingly insignificant details of this world; more importantly, to listen to him when he is enraged by fate’s injustice to the weak.

He had seen me-and I to him-many times. That I am sure. But seen me in a way I want him to see me now? Na-ah. It is spatially and physically impossible: he has forged an affair with the foreign sand on his feet while I remain rooted to the ground where sand and snow has never been. As to how I have come to know that beautiful side of him is largely a charity of the information technology. I have read it all—all the thoughts and imageries he willingly shared to friends and strangers alike. I like it that he had mastered the arts of his hands in a way that made me feel his passion bleeding from the tip of his pen; that there is fire in his bright colors and serenity in light ones. There is something chronicled in his images—a perceived representation of recalled pain or joy. I could expend the rest of this night imagining that I was there as a witness of it all just so I’d discover the bridge between his experience and his artwork.

Clearly, I am very taken at the idea of this man. It’s quite an undertaking trying to remember his timbre much more analyze his cerebral workings. But before things turn into a lunacy, let me declare that I am very much aware that this too-- however pleasant it makes me, shall pass. :)