Sitting on opposite sides of the table. Spoonfuls of lunch, inconsequential chatter, pensive gazes. Casual banter gradually evolves into mutual sharing of insights; personal anecdotes; heart-felt memories; in-depth emotions.

I’ve been writing all morning, you say.
About what, I ask.
Just reflections, you reply.
Oh, I end.

Savour the silence. We share a knowing look. The cafe feels empty despite the typical weekend crowd; the chemistry of the present drowns out the incessant buzz of white noise in the background. Leather-bound notebook of crisp, blank pages; two graphite pencils, one stubbed from use; thoughtful scrawl.

Proof, you say, you wouldn’t have fully believed otherwise.
I laugh politely. It’s true, I wouldn’t have.
Let me read you a bit, you offer.
Cursory glances trail the page – I have to self-censor some bits, you state with a nervous chuckle.

Words float off the page, translating into a string of emotions brought to life through verbal delivery. The eyes never leave the page, reading, line by line by line. From graphite to sound. The voice is stable; though the twitch in the fingers wrapped around the book’s spine is apparent.

I sit with my chin in my palms, elbows resting on the table. Ingesting the words, the emotions, the moment. I look at you look at the words; I look at you look at yourself. Your voice quivers at certain poignant parts; you continue. You manage to get to the end.

That’s all I have, you conclude.
Wow, I begin.
Too much? you ask.
No, no. I just don’t know what to say, I reply.
You smile. I smile.

Hours merge and time stops; time lengthens, and quickens. Time is redundant. Conversation continues with growing intimacy, and trust, and lessened inhibitions. Interspersed with awkward giggles and heartened sighs, genuine gazes and embarrassed chokes. Leaning forward, eyes meet, the connection strengthens.

Now you know one sad thing about me, you joke, and I know one sad thing about you.
I smile.
It’s good you know, you continue, to think, and to talk.
You don’t look like much of a thinker, I joke.
You laugh.
It’s just unexpected, I try to justify myself.
It’s not me, you say.
People don’t talk, you continue. Think about it, your friends, parents, relatives, anyone – when was the last time you heard them share something personal?
I don’t know, I reply. We don’t share.
Exactly, you shoot back somewhat triumphant.
It’s trust, people don’t trust, I state.
That’s the sad part, you agree.
Our eyes meet in a silent, unspoken question – do you trust me.

Somewhere in the midst of words and feelings, I think I said yes.


Semicolon: A semicolon represents a sentence the author could’ve ended, but chose not to. The author is you and the sentence is your life (or a relationship).

---

I haven’t written here much this year. Which is good, I think. It means I am no longer unhappy. I’ve always believed there’s a certain relation between writing and unhappiness. Perhaps I really am in a better place at the moment. Perhaps it really is better to not think. At all.

Do I miss thinking? Somewhat. Do I miss the words? Yes, definitely.

Sitting on opposite sides of the table. Spoonfuls of lunch, inconsequential chatter, pensive gazes. Casual banter gradually evolves into mutual sharing of insights; personal anecdotes; heart-felt memories; in-depth emotions.

I’ve been writing all morning, you say.
About what, I ask.
Just reflections, you reply.
Oh, I end.

Savour the silence. We share a knowing look. The cafe feels empty despite the typical weekend crowd; the chemistry of the present drowns out the incessant buzz of white noise in the background. Leather-bound notebook of crisp, blank pages; two graphite pencils, one stubbed from use; thoughtful scrawl.

Proof, you say, you wouldn’t have fully believed otherwise.
I laugh politely. It’s true, I wouldn’t have.
Let me read you a bit, you offer.
Cursory glances trail the page – I have to self-censor some bits, you state with a nervous chuckle.

Words float off the page, translating into a string of emotions brought to life through verbal delivery. The eyes never leave the page, reading, line by line by line. From graphite to sound. The voice is stable; though the twitch in the fingers wrapped around the book’s spine is apparent.

I sit with my chin in my palms, elbows resting on the table. Ingesting the words, the emotions, the moment. I look at you look at the words; I look at you look at yourself. Your voice quivers at certain poignant parts; you continue. You manage to get to the end.

That’s all I have, you conclude.
Wow, I begin.
Too much? you ask.
No, no. I just don’t know what to say, I reply.
You smile. I smile.

Hours merge and time stops; time lengthens, and quickens. Time is redundant. Conversation continues with growing intimacy, and trust, and lessened inhibitions. Interspersed with awkward giggles and heartened sighs, genuine gazes and embarrassed chokes. Leaning forward, eyes meet, the connection strengthens.

Now you know one sad thing about me, you joke, and I know one sad thing about you.
I smile.
It’s good you know, you continue, to think, and to talk.
You don’t look like much of a thinker, I joke.
You laugh.
It’s just unexpected, I try to justify myself.
It’s not me, you say.
People don’t talk, you continue. Think about it, your friends, parents, relatives, anyone – when was the last time you heard them share something personal?
I don’t know, I reply. We don’t share.
Exactly, you shoot back somewhat triumphant.
It’s trust, people don’t trust, I state.
That’s the sad part, you agree.
Our eyes meet in a silent, unspoken question – do you trust me.

Somewhere in the midst of words and feelings, I think I said yes.


Semicolon: A semicolon represents a sentence the author could’ve ended, but chose not to. The author is you and the sentence is your life (or a relationship).

---

I haven’t written here much this year. Which is good, I think. It means I am no longer unhappy. I’ve always believed there’s a certain relation between writing and unhappiness. Perhaps I really am in a better place at the moment. Perhaps it really is better to not think. At all.

Do I miss thinking? Somewhat. Do I miss the words? Yes, definitely.