Lost in the drafts - 3

If I ask you about your dreams, don't reveal them to me. I might steal it. Not the whole of it, but tiny parts of it. Parts you thought didn't mean much but was the very being of it. But if you ever let your guard down and ignore my warning, I would listen to you with an open heart. I would smile and laugh, sympathize and try to empathize, and maybe fall in love with your dreams. As much as I love big dreams, I have a soft spot for the small tiny ones. The tiny intimidate ones. And when I see you again, I would thank you for giving me a wonderful time. But you would never know why. I stole it from you but you would never realise it. The perfect crime.

Someone once told me never write about people. People you love. People you hate. People you meet. People who just exist. It is too cruel of an act to suppress them within a bundle of words. Let the words free, let it emerge in the form of sound, let it hit the air, let it just be there. But I was scared. Words were my solace. I could share my darkest secrets, my deranged thoughts, my deepest regrets and you would never know. I would call it fiction and you would believe it like everyone else. But one day, I woke up and I realised I wasn't scared anymore. I was ready to remove the knots one by one. When I went around telling people what I felt about them, some laughed, some cried happy tears, some called me crazy. Have you been holding back too? Have you been tightening the knots while I was on a voyage to set them loose? I thought I had you beside me. I was wrong all along,right? You made me strong, you became my mentor, you helped me let things go, but there was something wrong. The last missing piece of the puzzle. It was you. You send me off on a trip that you were too afraid to take. Whether you had wrong or right intentions, I would always be grateful to you. Always. The perfect lie.

I have always believed that I was meant to travel and explore the world. It's this voice in the back of my head constantly telling me of the wanderlust I possess. Yet you would never meet someone who is so scared and inexperienced. I would listen to all your stories and try to make them mine too, but fail miserably. I still believe in my instincts though. Each time I take the bus back home, I ask myself whether I would miss this city I have become a small part of. The answer comes out as a strong 'no' each time. And more or less, I feel like a strange kind of magic I always used to feel was fading. A sinking feeling in the bloody heart.  But you tell me the secret ingredient. People. It's always the people. The places are the background, the memories are the loud music playing in the back, and you are the one I would miss. The perfect yes.

'Welcome to my mess.'
                 - Liza. 

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