If you ask me what made me writing this, it was not you. It was my friend. He told me I should say this but I knew that I’m always better at writing some lines that would fit perfectly in a soap opera than saying things that make sense. So I wrote this. For you. For me. For my future daughter, so later I can say, “Maera, I was really good at writing, until I met your father.”
I like you. I like the space between your stupid words. I like the space among the traffic you can laugh at. I like the space on the windows you captured. I like the space you like. I like the space in those four years with serendipities.
Then after a while, I understood, that some space might be created to be empty. After several times of drawing a plan there, I realized that it was like making space inside space; as plan was another space. Space of uncertainty. Space that belongs to destiny instead of serendipity.
I like you. I like the idea of telling less because you’d understand easily. I like the idea of going to a concert of a band we mutually like. I like the idea of going far and not returning.
But idea is just another space afterall. And some space is surely meant to be empty.
(Inspired by I Wrote This For You)