The Everwhat

The Everwhat of What do I do?

Maybe I should write one of those cheesy and clichéd and repetitive and boring and redundant and cheesy and clichéd and repetitive and boring stories about infinite love and complete faith in crazy and imperfect yet inexplicably good-looking strangers who fill teen and preteen girls all over the world with high expectations of prince charming and when reality hits them like a truck that’s been honking for the last few hours turns into clichéd and boring and unoriginal and overly melodramatic oh-somebody-dies-don’t-say-bad-stuff-if-someone-kills-themself stories where only the names of the protagonists keep authors from getting caught for plagiarism.

Or maybe I should direct an action movie about a dashingly handsome good guy with a strict moral code which sometimes is a strict moral code of having no morals that allows him to walk away from explosions with hair so damn fine that the booms seem to do nothing but help set his fabulous hair gel further. A movie where drop-dead gorgeous babes either drop dead or drop clothes all because of the awesome good guy and his damn fine hair and where Greek gods have English accents and anyone who actually has an accent is looking for world domination with a maniacal laugh that should rip their arteries in one shot.

Or maybe I should sing a song about the same shallow clichéd boring repetitive and redundant love stories but with line changes in the middle whose sole purpose is to get the other preteen and teen girls who were too hipster to fall for cheesy love stories but are still stupid enough to actually just act like they don’t care about a non-existent love and fangirl over stupid morals the artist himself doesn’t believe in and it comes to a point where the artist can just fart and it is taken as a deep and significant and emotional song about the tortures of bowel movements that moves the hearts of millions of people across the world and tops charts like every other goddamn similar song before it.

Or maybe I should draw a white square and tell everyone how symbolic that is to our life and waste a thousand words describing the picture when it is supposed to describe itself while people, who actually find it boring but want to look intellectual enough to understand hidden meanings inside a while box, stare at awe at the magnificent symbolism of modern art that is actually fit to make toilet paper designs out of.

Or I could just sit here and criticize things.

Rant over, ladies and gentlemen. Class dismissed. Don’t forget to tip the waitress. Have a great night. May the force be with you. Amen.

Everwhat. Everwhat. Everwhat.

Dear someone I’ve yet to meet,

Hello.

It feels weird writing to someone you haven’t met. It’s weirder still telling them that you miss them. Yes. I miss you. Even though the fabric of space-time hasn’t allowed our union, and even though English grammar forbids me to speak of future events using the present tense, I cannot find any other words to express what I feel right now, probably because the words are yet to come and do not wish to be brought forth before their time. It feels like you are a part of me, and I miss you.

I hope we meet soon. I have so much to tell you and you have so much to tell me. There is so much we have yet to do together. But maybe I’m taking a lot of presumptions here — I don’t even know if you’re one or many. Maybe I’ll see parts of you in other people, living each moment with a different person but still feeling the same warmth in all of them, the warmth that I call you. Or maybe you’re a single person I’m going to meet, someone who will complete me in some way. Or maybe I’ve already met you, but our timelines are yet to cross in a meaningful manner.

Maybe I’m a giant jigsaw puzzle that has lost too many squares and you’re a giant jigsaw puzzle that has lost too many squares, but in some divine way I have all your missing pieces and you have all of mine, and this is why I’m searching for you and this is why you’re searching for me. We’re just looking for our missing pieces, the pieces that were never there, the pieces that were taken and never returned, the pieces that just disappeared as time went on.

I guess everyone is a giant jigsaw puzzle, constantly searching for their missing pieces.

I miss you sounds wrong now, since the only way I’ll ever complete myself and the only way you’ll ever complete yourself is for us to take over each other completely. And that wouldn’t be a single I any more, or a single you. We miss you would be better suited.

Having said all that, I don’t know why completing puzzles is so important.

But what I do know is that the bare thought of being with you takes my breath away. I can’t even place my feelings. It’s one of those moments that no artificial construct, let alone words, can ever describe. It’s like looking at the stars at night and suddenly realizing that you will never be able to understand their beauty with such a clouded mind. It’s like watching a sunset turn the whole world red and then black with such grace that you’re left wondering when the evening ended and the night began.

I look at the world and I see so much that I feel like my heart is going to burst. So I shield myself from this grandeur. I wear the tinted lenses of apathy. I ignore the beauty around me, simply because I feel that if I take off these glasses I’ll be blinded by the light. And this is why I need you. And this is why you need me. I trust you more than I trust myself and you share similar faith in me.

So tell me everything is going to be alright, and take off my glasses. I’ll be happy to do the same to you. We’ll face the light together, you and I.

I really hope we meet soon. We miss you.

Yours,
Someone you’re going to meet