Fast-paced work, mind-draining studies, and solitary living – the routine I come to realize when he arrives into my world without my knowing. I write, yes – for a fee. Until I notice my writings pro bono and from my actual setting. Friends swoon into the hopeless romantic in my poems, engage in the passion on my blog posts, and adore the subject of my writings.
Wonderful is an understatement to describe him. I brim of joy whenever I see him. His scent intoxicates me. He’s a prescription drug I need every hour. Yes, he’s a sui generis – a god who loves me as I am and listens anyway to what I say. He’s a guru – my most patient reader, too. He’s a companion who puts me into intellectual ecstasy, which status I beg to remain. I write, yes – for our pleasure. Words animate him, and allow me to see how magical the world I suddenly get in. Every day, it is the multi-million words, both written and unwritten, we look forward to. Astonished and overwhelmed I am. I fail to distinguish which century I’m in and planet I belong. At the top of my world, all I see is his magic, all I hear – his music, and all I feel – the mantle of a love that I wish to live for a lifetime or two. Then, there’s a blur.
The day comes when I stop writing even when prompts run amok. I don’t want to see objects in wonderland. I put myself in an enclosure, work and study in my country’s time zone, and chain the solitude of a world different from before. Yes, I begin writing again – for reality-check and the passion of it. I remember the subject yet lucid at the pleasure it reminds.
Juanderworld 