It’s always the same thing. People will tell us: “So you have a choice: continue being lonely or choose to move on to something wonderful?”, or something like that. How do we move on to that something wonderful, though? I’ve moved on from a lot of feelings before, but I never really encountered that wonderful thing they’ve been talking about. I still have nights when I look back and regret my choices. Where is this wonderful thing?
I know that whatever I have invested in this feeling is only stemmed to an idea, an idea of you, and it might seem silly that I managed to pluck this much deep-feeling in a mere love for an idea, but that’s the thing about ideas, they’re vast and limitless. Hence, my thoughts and very words right now, became seemingly profound and genuine–genuine, in its infinitesimally small way.
Do you know why it never worked back then? Why, despite all your sincerest efforts and feelings, you never had the chance? It’s not because she didn’t like you, or she never noticed you, it’s because you never noticed her—the real her. You were so deeply, madly, and truly in love with this idea of her you came up with, that you forgot to be in love with who she really was. Your love was unquestionable, but who were you really in love with? Certainly not with her.
“Imagine this”, you said it the first time. A whole world wide web between us where literally every imagination concocted have already been brought to life and somehow you think you can still do better, like your mind has a whole new universe to offer and unexpectedly, I was glad you shared your universe-of-a mind even for a fleeting moment, right before an unexpected pitch black swallowed our connection. I imagined that’s the end of it.
Imagine this! The after-midnight effect; for some inexplicable way, the universe—the moon, the stars and possibly the entire heavenly body—must have conspired that night for us to find each other once more. ‘Unintentionally’ it was for you but ‘Magically/Tragically’ beautiful it was for me. A mere coincidence perhaps but the after-midnight clouded me to think deeper; assume that there’s more to this than it should have been just ‘that’.
Imagine this; two words that have slowly started to bring both our walls down but the second time around, that best encounter from the first time continued its magic; the playful and witty words about the sensible and insensible’ of the world made a surprisingly beautiful yet more tragic turn to our personal lives; the shared secrets, ridiculous laughter, the unseen yet alluring smiles and the read-between-the-lines moments are the evident truth of a ‘something’ between the two of us.
Imagine this: A magician with the realest magic and a writer with the astonishing fiction-for-a-truth meet and speak. The magician shared visions of deep and hilarious wonders as the writer falls for the real magic that not a lot can experience on a daily basis and the ordinary writer tells an original tale as the magician starts to see the writer as nothing less than extraordinary. The magician and the writer, inside a shared imaginarium, both are after-midnight drunk; one of them is lying but both of them feel the honesty. The magician and the writer have met but it has to come to an end, as the writer finally decided to stop trying to write a truth.
Imagine this, I thought. Imagine what if all of this is true; the bits and shreds of truth, even if the truth is plentiful, none can make this entire night any truthful at all. A mere wishful thinking, pointless and hurtful but I had to try. Even with the bitch-of-a truth, I had to try—wish, find, plea—for a chance to wake up with this as my new reality but alas! The magic cannot be real for the writer.
“Imagine this. I finally get it”, you said. “I’m poetic”, I replied. And so I thanked you for the magic as you thanked me for the story with the slight hope of meeting again but little did you know, I’m closing the door between us for good because you deserve nothing less than the truth and the truth is I was only a fiction that night, only to make your night interesting as you wanted. It was unintentional but I’m halfheartedly glad about it and I know you were wholeheartedly glad on that other end but please, please, please put my book down and I can only hope that you stop reading my words soon enough. They’re no good for a real magician.
“That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day.” says Arctic Monkeys. That could not have been more true that night for the magician and the writer.