Small essays born out of loneliness.

Songs I keep to myself

Sometimes I want to call her to tell her about this song I just found. How this artist made a composition so beautiful, so engrossing, that you need to drop your life immediately to experience it. How it reminds me of all those ticks she had, and the way she used to laugh, and the countless times we drove together late at night. Maybe it would've been the right song for our wedding, or it could've been the song we obsessed together for a month, or the artist we fantasize of seeing live someday. Maybe she wouldn't have liked it at all. Maybe it would have become a song that is more hers than it is mine.

If somehow she answered, maybe I could have an excuse to tell her how I was always right but also so wrong all this time. That I knew there was something wrong with me, even when she decided to ignore it. That I should've treated her with more patience, because she too was also not at all there. Always so ironic how we pushed and chastised each other while neither being able to control how we are, or even fully aware of it.

Then I would have a closure so enlightening I would forget the regret, so forceful I could die peacefully. But we don't acknowledge each other anymore and I can't have my closure. Feeling the release of pain, doubt, and regret is great, but it isn't a right we get every time. She wanted me to never disturb her again and I'm not willing to break this contract. Maybe she also wants to tell me some last few notions about us, but she's stuck in the same dilemma as me.

How perfect it would be to just talk one last time, but when it is over, it is over. You have to let go, loose ends included.