Chilly Thoughts

Background music: The Christmas Song, Peter Lee Johnson cover @ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MBIURG8qTNY 

I give up! You won me over without even lifting a damn finger of yours. How could you? Just a look and a whole lot of ideas spawned from that. Cheesy ideas, silly ideas, corny, impossible, utterly nonsensical ideas. And feelings unbeknownst to me, the utterly either unemotional-or-overacting me. There are highs of euphoria and Polyanna thinking, of sudden bouts of laughter and genuine Duchenne and teeth-baring smiles, and the deep downs of depression and near-anhedonia, or the most irrational of jealousy and insecurity (Sorry L-J. it’s not your fault, it’s just me, but I’m  really worried by your closeness). When I’m happy because I see you smile at me, talk to me, or see your posts and pictures, I skip staircase steps, sway my arms like a child, hum a random tune, and give my already-deflated pillow another back-breaking hug. When I’m sad because of you, it’s as if the world will never see me smile or live the next day. It’s killing me inside, not being able to see you, or hear you, or smell that utterly common perfume of yours.  But I’m not complaining, for with every whiff from that stranger in the crowd, I am reminded of you. That you’re real. not a dream. Not a fantasy or illusion. That you can still be reached, touched, possessed, owned, hugged to infinity by me.

My confidante is really getting pissed off; he nearly wanted to smash the pen with your name engraved on it. Roll it over with the SUV for good measure. And he is still vouching for Team Jacob, my high school friend. He threatens to walk out on our lunch or dinner dates whenever I hint about you. He knows how fond I am of your nose and he promises to break that one first if ever you hurt me. He had never been this worked out when it comes to my objects of desire until you came.

I know, right? You occupy everything in me. The long commute hours is just another excuse for me to think about you. Or listen to all the songs I dedicate to you. This is getting crazy! I know! My mind tells me so! But no, my heart is ever-stubborn. I get mad at you for not replying to my email on time, or ignoring that text message of mine, but at the end of the day, the anger melts down to be replaced by wistfulness. Sadness, maybe. Then a little hope that next day I’ll see you again. You’re killing me softly, slowly. I can’t take it. My confidante is right. I’ve targeted you. And like a laser from the gun, you’re marked for life. The sole object of attention of mine.

But when you’re near, everything becomes a dream. A dream that I just can’t deal with in a mature way. I tune out, or I pretend I don’t listen. I turn my attention to other things, like let’s say, coloring that egg when you were describing the perfect kiss. Because if I have my way, the way I’ll deal with you is to just come over and hug you tight and kiss you like mad.

This is the truth that I just can’t admit personally or in public through my own voice.

I just want to be with you. Differences can be compromised, opposition can be settled down. I have conditions, of course, but hear me out first and you’ll understand its rationality. But still I’m adamant. I want to be with you. Screw the past, screw the present. I’m into the future. I’ll be waiting. I’ll be here.

Then just listen to How Deep Is Your Love by Kelly Rowland and Michael Buble @ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0An01bFrpDI

The lyrics speak for themselves.

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