For the Pacific

Few days ago, I told D about THE LINE OF ALL LINES–the Line that haunted me for many years since its birth–the line that remains to be my unfinished business until now.

Lo and behold, in my effort to really nail it down to existence, I wrote the prose below:

Four weeks ago I told myself I will write in your name as much as I could. Every day, I would, like learning calligraphy–a curve, a flick, a tail that reaches far away.

I had a mission to record, immortalize how much I like you, liked you since the beginning. How there wasn’t a period when your number didn’t add a spring to my step. How there wasn’t a moment lost in limbo. I had liked you from the start. I didn’t want that to go without saying.

So I took out the blank pages and scribbled your ways. It was a long list of reasons why I like you. I kept on stopping myself, at risk of sounding like a creepy kid with a crush. But I stopped. The words hid. The lines put to a halt. I started loving you and even poetry was lack luster to the feeling.

How I love you I can’t explain. How the feeling leaves a tremble in my chest, making it hard to breathe. How all my storm calms when you hold my hand.

So I started painting your face in every empty space. I am on a mission to see you in every dream. My journals can’t contain all there is that’s here in your name. I run like a river to the ocean that you are. My deep blue secret, the Pacific, my home.

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But it’s not enough. It’s not how I imagined The Line to live on. I guess that’s what happens when you try to fit a story into a mold. The same goes with people. When you see people based on what you want to see, and judge people based on what they’re not (based on what you want them to be), you set yourself up to getting disappointed. Seems simple right? Agree. But in the heat of moments, it’s also very easy to forget. Kinda learned that the hard way.

1,000 Years by Liza Anne

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