By way of sheer luck and mastered Googling techniques, I finally found the personal virtual space of a distant crush I've been fawning over for most of the days back in college. And whaddyaknow, nothing makes me more smitten than a boy who despite the wretchedness of heartache can still sound romantic.
I broke the news of my underrated feat to some of my college dudettes who knew of my ogling over him. He's a literature major. Suffice to say a man who perfected the art of personal harakiri. To puncture himself and let his feelings gush forth, what is immortalized by way of lyrical essay, poems, and the one I love the most, a staccato letter.
Under 20 minutes I've tranced. Eyes whirling. Mind throbbing. Crimson tide rushing. Unfettered panicking started to engulf me for reasons unknown to me. Line by line the pieces of puzzle showed a forlorn heart which he tried to salvage by clinging onto promises of reparation. Sent and letters unsent, he said, to the other boy he fell in love with.
Our overdue guessing game was over. I was right. My girl friends who also liked him made way for an admission that bruised the feminine psyche. "One of you, I suppose," a friend told me. That was a balm for the spirit.
He was a distant familiar face. On days when our college building was a perfect shelter for the afternoon smoltering heat, he was the needed zephyr. Their class isn't that big a population. And since they're a woman-dominated major, as ours too, boys are easily seen from the sea of skirt. If my memory would be correct in conjuring memories stowed in the depth of my past, he's a sheepish character. He walked laggardly, usually skidding his feet onto the years-olden tiles of the hallways adjacent to ours. He would innocently hold tight onto his bag strap, as if some cat is chained inside to prevent it from leaping out. And when I'd meet his eyes, quietly he would look away.
Years have gone by and bygones were bygones, he suddenly reappeared. For Fate's no good reason and reasons I wouldn't want to know either. It dawned on me that he's nursing a pulverized heart. His words, despite sullen, and apologies sincere to its core, fell flat for the man he loved. I couldn't blame the other though for it was he, he professed to the cyberworld, who took the run away. His is his personal life and no other could put resolution into it than him alone. Let he be his Oedipus and with that I step back.
It'd be fatal to put this up on where we've been following each other. That'd be a ticket to doomsday. At the very least, after so much egging and convincing from my daredevil woman-friends, I finally followed him. Some part of me died from guilt, but have resurrected when the revelation came that I was on his reading list already.
My thoughts are awashed, frittering away in the drizzle. And this post could easily perish when it squeak past through to the backburner. But I have to get this thought down else it may threaten the life it belongs to. This is badly written and perhaps will end up this way.
Of course I make no hint before him about my growing fascination for him. Let this be a one-way street of admiration. Like Northern Star rising. The one you can easily spot amid the crystalline twinkling of the stars scattered even on a mantle of darkness. The celestial gem that's seen but unknown.