37: The Hope

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The Hope

He wiped his tears slowly and passionately. He sobbed for a moment, a kind of sob where loneliness lingered. He folded the letter and kissed it so tenderly.

A knock on the door echoed the room. “Mr. Nicholas Thompson?” A lady in a black executive suit came in. She hugged him so tight and he too in return.

“Can you please give this to your mother?” He beamed with great hope. Staring at the woman in front of him and reading the name tag that says Summer Jordache. He can’t believe how this precious soul had grown to such a wonderful lady. “You know you had your mother’s eyes and and smile, don’t you?”

“I know. “ She smiled and gave out a wink from her hazelnut eyes. “Don’t worry Dad. I got your spirit and heart and you know it.” She hugged him again and whispered. “I hope Mom’s gonna remember all this.”

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37: The Letter

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Love Letter

Photo Credit: Everyday Lovely

* * *

Dear Natasha,

How you doing?

I’m getting older now if I may tell. I counted the years that had lapsed from us and it’s 37. If fate would not be cruel enough we could already have beautiful children. I could still remember how you used to tell me that if you were to have a son, you’ll probably call him Summer. The season where we first met, isn’t it?

 You’re so beautiful back then and I couldn’t certainly forget your sweet smile and your hazelnut eyes. God knows why selling ice cream in your neighborhood is the most fulfilling job of all. You asked me if I was new in the place and you never hesitated to help me finding my way. I was 19 back then and I was so in love with you.

August, I asked you out and it’s magical seeing you your brightest smile. I stopped selling ice creams that time since summer is over but I never stopped seeing you. We went to the park, talked about music and how many children you wanna have. November, you told me you’re leaving and you’re never coming back.

I could feel your pain and how it hurt us. I kissed you, probably our last kiss that time as far as I could remember and we make love. Morning came and you’re gone.

I still miss you Natasha. Your smile, your hands and the way we share ice cream.

I always love you and hope you’ll remember this.

 

Love,

Nick

 

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37: The Number

The Number

“I will miss the future I might have had with you.”

He read and slowly folded the parchment which seemed to be yellowed by age. On a separate piece he inked ‘I miss you too’ under the pile of the same phrases.

He counted them. 37.

He laughed. “I miss you for 37 years.”

So again, just like what he’d been doing for the past years, he tucked himself on the table started composing a reply. His 37th letter. His 37th reply to a letter he had from her, 37 years ago.

 

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For the love of God…

love of GodOriginal article by John Benneth

I was looking up browsing through the Concordance to check a certain verse about Love… All through my life, I always yearn for something revolutionary; may it be an idea, principle, thought, imagination, or something like that. I love and take delight in discovering facts & truth that would surprise and definitely disturb me, positively (wink). So! Something caught my sight when I noticed a particular verse, it’s 2 Corinthians 5:15.

Check it out and help yourself.

It’s a remedy to all the problems & struggles & battles of life. And that’s what caught my attention.

It says,

“For the love of Christ controls us, because we have concluded this: that one has died in substitute for all, therefore all have died; and he died in substitute for all, that those who live might no longer live for themselves but for him, who for their sake died and was raised.” Continue reading

Speaking of that love…

speaking of love

“One night Pietro Crispe sang. Macondo woke up in a kind of angelic stupor that was caused by a zither that deserved more than this world and a voice that led one to believe that no other person on earth could feel such love. Pietro Crispe then saw the lights go on in every window in town except that of Amaranta. On November second, All Soul’s Day, his brother opened the store and found all the lamps lighted, all the music boxes opened, and all the clocks striking an interminable hour, and in the midst of that concert he found Pietro Crispe at the desk in the rear with his wrists cut by the razor and his hands thrusts into a basin of benzoin.”

An excerpt from One Hundred Years of Solitude by Jose Garcia Marquez

We can’t determine what lies ahead of us. But when we truly found the very person that would mean a world to us, that’s the beginning of our spontaneous daydreamings of how we will live our life, how we design it and how we end it in the favor of love.

Love, really is not a work of fairies and dusts, that will just happen once we wish upon a star. It’s an accident or unseen course that will just appear before we know it. It will just be there sitting comfortable on the sofa of the living room, not daring to knock, not asking for permission to enter. Bearing bags of pleasure, pains and tragedies. This is reality, love is a general thing that even makes my own perception of it unreliable. But that’s how I look at it, and that’s how I believe.

Our ability to care, to wonder what will happen of us and do things in the desires of our heart will wheel us to consequences usually what we haven’t transpired. In the process, it’s painful and gratifying, much as what we needed to grow and mature. But in the end, it’s a two faced embrace of whether a heartache or happiness. And what’s more terrible, it’s a tragedy that whether we like it or not, will always have its casualty.

Of what he fears beyond hate

hate

Of what he fears beyond hate

Maybe,

Just maybe.

That he doesn’t feel any hate.

He’s afraid.

Naming what he felt as love.

He lives in hate.

He had grown in hate.

He hated the mother who left him.

He hated the father who was gone.

He hated the world.

The world who did nothing.

Nothing but hate him.

Hate is what he only knows.

Yet, he felt fear.

He’s afraid of this unnamed emotion.

This absence of hate.

Telling that he never hated the girl before him.

He was afraid.

That it’s a feeling,

A love.

More tragic than what hate could offer.

The Storm

the storm

The Storm

She rolled the flag down,

An answer to the sea bird’s call

She looked upon the sky,

Beneath the horizon,

Darkness is crawling.

The wind didn’t sing,

Nor dance, nor cheer,

But fear laid in its coldness,

A breath of untune retribution.

Suddenly, she’s underneath its blanket.

Lights blinked in unpatterned instance,

Illuminates the world she feared.

Fierce lights came hitting her senses.

In each blink, she saw her sailor.

Smiling, crying, dying.

She’s been spellcasted,

She heard the voice,

The grasping horror of the darkness.

Ravishing, heavy, loud.

She ran inside her cabin,

Afraid, terrified, haunted.

She cried in fear like it was the first time.

Tears streamed down heavy and warm.

She remembered,

It’s been a year since her sailor died.

My Real Fairy Tale

fairytales

You’ve been to that point where you believe that in every tower lies Rapunzel and that every frog is a prince waiting for a kiss. But when you started to grow, you’ll tend to realize that fairy tales never exist. Until you meet someone and reignite that flaring hope for princesses, princes, fairies and knights in shining armor. Then you got married and drawn back to reality, got children and a tiring job, became busy in work, in family and in life, and the spirit of magical fantasies faded.

Then you will have that moment where you sit on your rocking chair, looking at your children, your children’s children, thinking about the past, how you had been in your childhood – catching memories and fishing significant thoughts.

You will try digging the old things you had kept in a wooden chest until you reached your old book of fairy tales. You scanned it with your eyes and hands, feeling every detail as it contains old memories. You will open it, will feel the moment of magic like it was the first time. Reading at every word as you try to savor the stories inside it. You will then realize how great it has been to live and you’ll relate yourself to a fairy tale story you knew. Then the flame that long been gone restored. For you yourself is living in a fairy tale.

You had been young enough to believe in fairy tales and you will go back to it, old enough to believe again.

I will leave this year with this last post. A post of believing and believing again. One of the greatest things in life is faith, the belief that you bear inside. Once it glares inside you, you’ll have a life full of potentials and see things differently. Once you believe in fairy tales everything seems magical. But the secret of fairy tales is not magic, but faith.

Keep that faith and have a prosperous new year to everyone.

All smiles!