You saw it in me way before anyone else did.
Did you always know that I was a seeker of stories?
When I was a child, you asked me to carry around a little notebook wherever I went.
You even told me how to do it–
Take down points in the moment.
Then you can go back and knit your story.
And I? I never did it.
I never believed in myself.
I don’t know if I do, even now.
But I believe in you.
And I believe in your belief in me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be who you envision me to be.
I don’t know if I’m already that, to you.
You have always been there.
Holding my tiny hands,
walking me on the roads when I could barely walk,
Buying me coconut water and candy,
Raising me to the top of my world–
So I could touch the wind-chime and giggle loudly,
You sat me on the verandah so I could point at apatanes.
I wish I had remembered the times before apatane changed to aeroplane.
I wish I had listened to you and written down points.
Of a life I don’t remember.
Of I life, I crave to reconstruct.
All these stories you tell me,
are the only bits I have now.
I don’t even remembering living them.
But you’ve made me relive them so many times,
that I wouldn’t be able to tell even if I had.
You made me realize that writing doesn’t always have to be perfect.
It never can be.
You taught me that it is in fact, an attempt to hold on,
To immortalize, to relive and to re-write.
I told myself that I’ll make you proud.
I wanted to hide and learn and practice,
and come out as a beautiful writer,
To surprise you!
But guess what?
You surprised me!
Because now, I don’t aim for perfection anymore.
I know I’ll only be as prepared as today.
I write and re-write and laugh at my own words.
But at least, I get them out.
These days, I’m scared if I don’t, they’ll go away forever.
It’s become a restlessness more than a habit.
I’ve become possessive of my life,
My family, friends, and the world around me.
So I want to write about all of them.
But not for anybody.
Not even for you.
Not even for me.
Because words can’t belong to anyone, can they?
They’re like birds set free. From the cages of our hearts.
You have to let them go.
I can’t write for you.
But I can thank you for giving me this beautiful gift.
I know you’ll say you didn’t.
You’ll say it was meant to happen.
You’ll say it’s God’s gift.
But to me, you’re the closest I’ve gotten to God.
So can we please make up this story?
Just like all those childhood stories I repeat to my friends,
without even knowing if they’re true.
Believing them by believing you!
So let this be our little secret,
Let me thank you for giving me my voice.