Unsent

The bus trip is a journey by itself, filled with the thoughts, feelings, and emotions of every single passenger and the people in their lives. But as rich as all these stories are, we also realize that we are but a passing second in the journeys of the thousands of people we pass by. One man's story can be as insignificant as a grain of sand on the beach. One story is but a speck in a world filled with stories--bits of people's lives which determine the course of their lives and possibly even the rest of the world's.

Mine is one you might have heard a little too often.

It's about not being able to tell the person you've been loving from a distance all your life, the one person you can never get out of your life yet never had in it in the first place, just how important they are to you. It involves the countless times you've wished they were with you during your major life events, on quiet nights, long trips where you get to do a lot of thinking, or even during moments when you suddenly smile and you want your muse to know that she is loved, remembered, and very much appreciated.

It is a hopeless case, but the whole point of telling the story and the reason there is a story to tell is because of that continuous piercing pain of your beloved never knowing the millions of stories, moments, and reasons for your holding on to one of your life's greatest dreams. Instead you try to be content with just letting the rest of the world know the universe of commitment and struggling contentment that you live in.


[Written on a Baguio bus trip]