Her

I love her. I can't describe it, I can't tell another person how my heart feels about her, I can't even begin to explain it to myself. When I think of her, it isn't a train of collected thoughts, running systematically on its track, but a whir-pool of thoughts, swirling and swirling and never stopping. They go round and round, circling my head every minute, every second  where I am both awake and not. And it feels like with each of its secondly round, a new thought about her would be gained. A new feeling. A fresh take on what she means to me. And just like that, I've started collecting the number of ways she made my heart beat, the number of ways she made me not want to look away, the number of ways she made me appreciate all that I have and all that I might have if she just stayed with me. If I were into scrapbooks, I would've filled at least 30 by now, with every page a detailed display of my every thought of her, every memory of her she had so delicately and artistically carved into whichever part of my brain that made it able for me to know my name, age, race, religion...all the important things, all the core subjects of my life. But details like age, race and address, although they make up who I am, they do not make up what and how I am. There is no cause-and-effect by them. They are merely labels, identifications that were handled down to me since the moment I was born. They had no say in how I turned out to be the person I am. But, her.

She.

Although I can't say that she's been with me since it all started, I can however, say that she's more core than any of those core information and facts about myself. Why is she, if not one of the main core information, then the actual, C-O-R-E information about me? I don't know. I don't know. All I know is that I'm everything made up of her. At least, that's how I feel like. I feel like, my body is not wholly my own, but a vessel that was meant for a complete soul to fill, which I am not. I am an incomplete soul. And her. I feel like, she's my soul. Like, my soul is hers and hers mine and together, we make up what was supposed to be my body, mind and soul. I don't know and I don't think I'll ever know if she feels or have ever felt this way about me, but I do know. I know with all my being that this is how I feel about her and about myself, and whether this is a right or wrong feeling, I frankly could not contribute enough cares to. Even if this turns out to be my own made-up world, a fantasy that refuses to mature and fade away, a dream that I thought I was living when I had been sleeping all along, I'm glad. I'm glad that all this happened.

I'm glad she happened.

I rarely talk about her in words that are not used on superficial descriptions of her and this is not because I do not like talking about her, or that she has nothing else worthy to be talked about. No, I rarely talk about her because I never know where to start. To me, there is a beginning with her. There is a beginning which stretches on and on and on and never seem to have an end to. Maybe because I don't want an end. Maybe because that's how I want it to play out between her and I, just a long road ahead. A never-ending, beautiful, happy stretch of road for us to trek on, where there is no fatigue, no out-of-breath moments due to not being able to catch up with the other but many out-of-breath moments from passionate kisses, laughter that could not be held back and from holding each other so tightly that even without air in our chest, we know that it's still going to be alright, that we're still going to be alright.

I just want us to be alright.