Attempts to a love letter

You know the scene at Fight Club where Marla kisses Tyler while every building around them crashes down to rubble?

Or that John Green book, Looking for Alaska, where the guy wants to sleep with the girl in the couch not to do sex or anything like the movies, but just to wrap her arms and sleep? I myself don’t believe it at first, but he did meant the phrase in its very innocent sense. The girl has this boyfriend; he said, “he feels so gawky and she gorgeous, he was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating.”

You know what he did? He quit imagining and went to the bottom of his bunk and you know what he said? What he said was, “if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.”

Sometimes I imagine myself with you all the time. The movies I watch, the books I read, the people I meet, I was half-wishing it was you, or that they have this inkling of quality you have–which, really, I have no idea what made me hooked into you.

In Murakami’s After Dark, I wish I were Takahashi and I would sit with you at some diner like Denny’s, and our conversations would range from the deeps to the trivialities of life. What’s your favorite salad? I love Greek salads. You like spaghetti with really sour tomatoes?

I thought of you when I was watching Adventureland. The guy followed the girl all the way to New York just to say his apologies while drenched in rain.

In Elizabethtown, you have made me mixtapes which I would listen to while I’m on the road. I was Orlando Bloom (minus the pretty face and the car) and you were Kirsten Dunst (minus the dimples). We would call each other until we tire our mouths out–heck, the phone calls in the movie even went as far as Kirsten was taking a bath.

I even wished I were James Sullivan (the blue furry monster) at Monster’s Inc and I would just find the right door to your room and–no, I won’t scare you, though I’ll probably think about that when I get there–just talk to you whenever I want. Or maybe Disturbia, with Shia LaBeouf in it, where he had this binoculars to peek around some hot chick in the neighborhood (which would be you) and, excuse me for wanting to intrude your privacy, I think it’s fun.

Okay, fine, it isn’t such a good thing to think of.

But honestly, you are incomparable to those figures. They’re just figures anyway; they’re not real. They’re just mere representations of people, imprints written to tell a story, to pinch people’s hearts and memories. You? You’re alive. You’re with me during the weekends at the park, lying all day at the grass. You’d tell me you wouldn’t kiss me when I smoke, but does it make any difference? I mean, people nowadays, they kiss even if they’ve eaten shawarma smothered with fresh white onions.

I wish I were a Post-It to tell you how much I love you stuck on the front page of your notebook or on your warm mug of coffee, but I’m just a guy who likes books and movies and all I could think of is you at mushy scenes (though I have to say I also imagined you at one scene in The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, though you’d better not ask for it was depressing, really). I tried forgetting you at Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and at Laguna Beach (promiscuity is all around that MTV series).

I hope you think of me as much as I do, not exactly to make things mutual. It’s just a nice feeling when people think of you so dearly. I mean, I don’t really care if you think of me while solving Math problems or anything; it wouldn’t bother me at all.

_{Just trying to make a love letter. Nothing special.}

August 27, 2009 at 9:51 am, filed under Fiction. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.