SCREENPLAY

SCREENPLAY
By Maan Villar
Monday, March 22, 2010

Need I say these words to you? That whatever ways I find to distract myself to refrain from thinking of you, resist the temptation you wear like perfume, remove the fear and the joy that I have when I see you – that I cannot be successful in this aspect. I want you to have me love you and if the eternal universal forces permit, you, love me. You make me develop wrinkles and laugh lines the way you make me still think about you, why can I not stop to think about that person I saw at the corner two years ago? I am driving myself to insanity the way I have no hold of the reins of my thoughts, I permeate it with ideals that you take the lead role in

Yes, I could right a screenplay of my imaginings that have you in it…

Imagine us on a café, I sit there alone drinking my warm cup of coffee with caramel notes and as I let the cup settle on its coaster, I warm my hands on its porcelain since fog is graying the city. You sit on the table in front of me, and for some reason you talk to me and remember that we did have a past despite its minute occupation in time. We chat up and as we chat you see that I am myself already, not the jittery, nervous, stuttering girl that you met a few years ago. Not the crazy girl who made a few sketches of you. Not the girl who etched your name in her heart only to find out that it would shed blood. Not the girl anymore that you abruptly left hanging and astray but a woman that interests you.

I do not want my ideal to be plunged with modernity, it would make it less romantic. Instead of having my number or email or I having such from you, we depend everything to chance and serendipitous hopes. We see each other on the same café, the attraction very strong and resistance from each other impossible.

We spend moments together until we ritualise these moments and form an unusual bond. That I imagine develops into a passionate love… that in that ideal would stay forever and that miniscule moment we spent before, be the prelude to this.

I wary that this would stay an ideal for the rest of time, and I would suffer unrequited love. Reason is, I simply have no power to permeate you. You are my Achilles tendon snipped with a pair of secateurs.

(Again a quasi-fictional account of creative brain juices freshly squeezed out by Maan Villar) =)

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