1. In The Beginning (06:04)

Transcript

This is just another story about love, our love and dreams. There are so many stories of love, and every one of them is the same, told over and over, with different characters and casts, but the same plot. Yet we never tire of hearing the same old story, told and retold, because deep in our little hearts, we yearn to live all those little triumphs and sorrows, over and over again. Once is never enough, there is never a limit to how much we can relive the trials and tribulations of love. A single lifetime is too short, so we look to others to fill that gaping need deep within us. To show us what is love, and to feel love, for the short few moments that the stories last. To let our hearts be deeply wrenched, to have the rawness of our emotions pulled out from deep within us, to let us feel what it is to be human again.

Then, we put on our unfeeling masks and pretend it never happened, and resume our cold, heartless lives, secretly waiting for the next story to hide our tears and laughter behind again.

And truly, what is love? There are so many ways to describe love, so many different ways to say the same thing. And in the end, it’s that same feeling that brings a lump to your throat, that makes your heart ache and hurt so painfully, yet deliver so much joy at the same time. That feeling that stretches your heart so far that it tears, that it strains, but makes you so painfully alive. And who does it strain for? For who does it pine? It pines for the one person you want to have, but don’t want to hold. The one person you want to give everything to, except yourself. The one person you love with your all your heart, care with all your emotions, but refuse to show it even once. And why? Because you love, and because in loving, you want the best for who you love. And you, are never the best.

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“Hey, what you scribbling about?”

That was how we first met. Me, huddled in my dark corner, curled as tightly into a ball as I could to hide from the cold. I wore my black, squared glasses then, my silly nerdy self that you would so often tease me about in the times to come. My scrapbook of papers, I hugged as tightly as I could while still being able to write. A messy bundle of folded scripts and papers strewn haphazardly into a makeshift book, full of random scribbles and notes that made me who I was, and in time, it would fill itself with you.

You, you were magic. You were light given form, blinding to the eyes of one such as I. If there was beauty then, I couldn’t see it, not yet. It was all I could do to shield my eyes from the bright silhouette that stood before me, white as white could be and still remain a silhouette, with the bright morning sun streaming in from behind. A small bag was slung across your shoulder, your knapsack of wonders that stored your many secret treasures I would soon discover.

“Hey, what you scribbling about?” You asked again, your voice tinkling like chimes in the wind. My eyes adjusted gradually to the light as you leaned in, and a vision of a young, bespectacled girl formed in front of my eyes. The flavour of the day, as I would soon find out about you and your flavours, was a pair of white, round glasses, and a long pony tail tied simply by white elastic, pull back behind you in a neat fashion. It nestled in the hood of your white jacket, worn simply over a plain white t-shirt. It was what you called the flavour of ‘freshness’, good for clean starts and new beginnings. Nothing like a white canvass to get all dirty over, you’d say.

And you were right. I was your dirt. But you would always wash, eventually. You would always clean it off, only to come back and get dirty again. That was who you were, always wanting to do something, experience something, always loving change. You could not sit still, not you, the one experience you could never try. And so, you would wash. You can’t dirty something that’s already dark with dirt.

The bell rang before I could answer you, and you vanished, the bright sun hurting my eyes in the empty space where your silhouette was. And truly, how could I answer you. What was I scribbling? Of love, life, and the universe? There is no succinct answer to a riddle so simple and confounding as that. The truth, the whole answer that I would give, would take me hours, maybe even days, and I would still not be finished. The only way to answer that question, was to let you read the very words I scribbled myself.

End.

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