I am in a haze somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness.

My body clock’s really messed up, after months of having bedtime past twelve midnight. So tonight, I have decided to stay away from the computer, give myself a chance to indulge in sleep. I curl in my bed, pleased by the warmth enveloping my little body, and as soon as my eyelids snap shut, a tidal wave of thoughts come rushing in. I drown in the voluminous waves.

Minutes pass like hours. I sigh, my eyes flutter open. I fumble in my room, weaving a tapestry of chaos while looking for the best way to escape the heavy, almost tangible presence of time. A light bulb flickers once overhead.

Music. I have an iPod, yes. The only gadget I have with the famous bitten white, little apple delicately etched on it. I had it since forever. No, I meant since first year high school. Four years. Now it won’t function without the charger pacifying it. (I practically had to search the whole house for an extension because I wanted to use it while nestled in my bed. Talk about laziness!)

Finally, I collapse in my bed, feeling myself melting because of Jason Mraz’s voice. His Butterfly is greeting my greedy ears. I want more. More.

An hour passes, I hear songs I haven’t heard in a while. I think I’m already fit for sleeping so I give my iPod my last touch for the night. I scan the list and find A Beautiful Mess. Something throbs in me, or is it just my imagination?


The familiar lyrics sweep over me, and I am taken aback. As if it were my first time to hear the song, goosebumps rise on my skin. I have heard this song millions of times already, but this, my reaction, would definitely pass for a “Hey, this is a great song! Who’s the artist?” moment.

Thoughts come thundering over me: “Wow, I really love this song.”, “What a year.”, “Such a beautiful mess.” Apparently, the song has completely driven me into a nostalgia I was not anticipating. It has indeed been a year. A beautiful mess of a year.

I can still remember how I felt so lost and ambivalent three-hundred-and-sixty-five-plus days ago. Everything was unfamiliar to me, I did not know where I was heading to. All I knew was that I wasn’t meant to take that ride. I was, in fact, a distant last choice as I saw it.

It never occurred to me then that times could turn and hearts could disfigure, that our lives could be wounded together to form a bigger and better life, that our nouns could fuse into the single pronoun us.

And now, here we are. We’re still here.


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