We are open books
and that’s what makes us beautiful: we are open books, screaming words that others can not scream.
Growing up makes me realize that not all the words I want to scream at someone can really be delivered to them. Sometimes, it’s better to just let things go without uttering any words. And all of the reasons behind, they are valid. Whether we want to avoid conflict or rejection, or we think it’s not worth our energy, because they would never understand anyway. Yes, irony is, some people can’t understand us even though when we say it out loud in front of their faces.
I know my decision always has consequences. I kept thousands words I wanted to say to my parents myself. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and months became years. But I never realized that it bottled up and it poured out not to them, but the moment I was alone. It’s just strange that I could pour all the words out when they weren’t around, but I froze when I was with them.
I never had a chance to scream my heart out to the person who got away. Instead, I wrote dozens unsent letters to him. And still, those letters has no address, as they shouldn’t. I wrote letters to my dad, and ironically I don’t want him to know those letters. As I grow up now, I know we can’t always say what we want and what we feel. Because maybe, they won’t even listen to it.
Writing letters, addressed to the fire.
I learned to write after I started monthly appointment of therapy. It is right that sometimes we can’t say what we want and what we feel toward a certain person. But it’s also unhealthy to just keep it in the deep end because those feelings would be erupting like a volcano. So, I then write letter after letter to the people I want to scream my heart out to.
I love reading someone’s piece of mind through their poems and proses. I love to know how they are doing from their words — not words uttered from their mouth, but those written in their elegies. I love to understand what they feel exactly from how they write down their erupting thoughts. And somehow, I don’t know why, I can feel the pain of their wounds without even listening to their shaky voices.
Even when they write about fiction, I love to learn their aspiration through the story they create. I love to explore their wildest imaginations, written chapter by chapter. Because from it, I learn that they don’t just write their stories, they let people into their world through their musing writings.
So, I start to put all of my unsaid words into my elegies, my poems that may be read by people who don’t even know me. And that’s the beauty of elegy, you don’t know the writer in person, but you know every chapter of their story. Because we, writers are open books.
An open book is easy to know the story. We don’t need to cast a spell to open it, because it’s already open. Each page of it, lies our aspirations, our hearts, and even our lingering wounds. The joy and the love we feel are transferred into people’s heart through writing. The agony and rage are transformed word by word into a beautiful elegy.
Through my writing, I wish I could speak their unsaid words that buried deep in their minds. Because I know how frustrating it is when I want to scream my feelings out, but something just holds me back. I wish, they find the apology they never received through my words.
Once again, that’s the beauty of an elegy. Representing and illuminating people’s mistake, darkest mind, or the words they don’t even know they need it. Because I know, I’m not the only person who experiencea a certain memory. We all live as canvases and painter. Painting others’ canvas and let ourselves be painted by others.
