it was never about me

I’d forgotten that my writing was never about me, and let my fears consume myself.

My writing, rather, was about you. It was a hesitant wave upon seeing a familiar face, once beloved, now a mask. It was the morning call of a sunray, falling upon a cheek like a shy eyelash. It was an almost-swallowed hello, a muted hug, a chaste kiss.

I stopped writing, as though this would stop me from feeling.

I remembered this only today, when chancing upon this most beautiful website: iwrotethisforyou.me
Its description reads:

I NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND SOMETHING. I WROTE THIS FOR YOU. I WROTE THIS FOR YOU AND ONLY YOU. EVERYONE ELSE WHO READS IT, DOESN’T GET IT. THEY MAY THINK THEY GET IT, BUT THEY DON’T. THIS IS THE SIGN YOU’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR. YOU WERE MEANT TO READ THESE WORDS.

My first thought was that this website said everything I wanted to say to you; that with its words circulating the atmosphere I wouldn’t need to say anything more. But here’s the thing: that blog was never meant for you. This one is.

So I’m going to start writing again. Not because I’m still in love with you. Not because I’m not in love with you. But just because it was never about me.

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~ by translating for peas on August 29, 2011.

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