30th of July

For a while, when everything in your world crumbles around you and nothing you can possibly experience can carry any true emotion, one begins to slowly fall apart at the seams. Simple tasks take the most effort because they need the least of concentration, your mind allows itself to deal with other topics for the meanwhile. But complicated tasks like writing these entries, I've never seen anything that hurts like this yet leaves me so numb. 

In case you can't tell by the imperfect preforation sometimes visible, I tear out a lot of my writings on this journal very often, explaining why there are few days left in between each time I write. I want everything you read out of here to be perfect, I want you to see the better side of Byun Baekhyun, the one you fell in love with as we stood side by side against the pastel-colored wallpaper of our favorite modern art gallery, facing our favorite painting, 'Misconceptions of Hues' by a foreign artist you could never remember, Lodesyn Porletzo, which we learned rather dispiritedly was a pseudonym upon one day's research.

Do you remember that painting? 

I remember it vividly. When I close my eyes, I can see the colors splayed over the large easel with apparent carelessness, and yet up close we'd make out the careful lines that make them up, the tenetative hand that must have created each of the . That's what you loved most about the painting, the ironic carelessly done appearance yet up close you'd see every mark was deliberate though not understanding its purpose frustrated me as with most things, you admired the way the colors were endless as if new colors really were created by this talented artist, you embraced all that was new and all you couldn't understand. Which made me self-concious and caused me to attempt to renovate myself ever so often with new hair cuts and outfit styles, but I don't think you noticed. I don't mind, made me happy my guess was not accurate. What did I love about it? Well, I loved that you could see so much meaning and depth in it and over all, I liked how everytime we gaze at it with our backs pressed against the wall, always coming up with new theories as to its creation. At times, you came up with the most realistic and relevant theories that I nudged you and joked that maybe Park Chanyeol is the true name behind the pseudonym of 'Lodesyn Porletzo' and that you were the real artisit behind it.

That's how I sometimes imagine this journal will end up, like Porletzo's only work, looking void of anything to any one else but full of every aspect and emotion known to man to someone like you, who can read in between the lines. The careless appearance can become something so fine-tuned it is breathtaking and my feelings can be communicated clearly without hindrances. But even when tears don't clog up my sight, or blotch up my words and smudge the ink before being the page is ripped off and crumpled like all the others, I can see that it'll never be as fascinating to any of the both of us, this reliving of our love sounds foolish from my handiwork. It's not the same delicate as before that painting, it's not even close. My writings literally are how you see them from afar, there are no careful seen from close inspection, no lines to read in between. At times, it seems they don't talk about anything at all even. Forgive me, Chanyeol.

Forgive all of us human beings who could never come up with any word strong enough to depict the feelings that makes my heart feel both heavy and light, happy and sad, breathless and never more alive; the only word I can use for now is 'love' and hope you understand. I love you, Chanyeol. Did I ever say that enough to you? When was the last time I said that aloud to you? I cannot remember, because as involuntary as breathing is to human beings, saying those three words were that way. But what I am sure of is that I meant it all the way, so don't go on forgetting that after reading this, okay? I love you. 
Even on paper, it doesn't look like it's enough to channel what I was feeling, am feeling, and always will be feeling. 

But you understand. You always seem to. 
I give you all I have to offer. Just like how I gave all of mysef to you when you were here and still do now.

I didn't visit that art gallery for so long. I almost forget how the other paintings look other than ours, but it's alright, I still keep my eyes and ears alert to one day find out who the artist may be, just like we promised we'd find out before our days were outnumbered. I'm keeping up our promise on my own, Yeol, don't worry. I'll even ask him what his paintings mean and tell him about you, I can guarantee you that your assumptions will impress him when I do. 

I have this crazy scenario playing out in my head right now that if, no, when I meet him, he'll instantly understand about us and about you most importantly. As if through the painting we so often observed, he could have known you as well; that way I wouldn't be alone, that way I'd have someone that knows how long the days feel without you here, and he'd understand and feel it too, all of it.

Crazy the ideas that come to you in desperation. 

Crazy that I brush away anyone I have once befriended when they try to approach me now, as all they seem to say is things they don't personally believe, yet think will comfort me, how they touch my shoulder and say 'It'll all be just fine soon, give it some time' as if this 'it' of theirs can just magically sprout wings and fly away.  And even more so that I sometimes crave for someone I only know through one uncomprehendable portrait and a faux name to mean those same actions and let alone perform them. Though for the record, this artist would probably have worded that statement much more comfortingly, or just used a completely different one all together; words so carefully crafted that they almost fit yours. 

It is not crazy, that's a poor adjective, it is pure mindlessness, all of this. 

And it is leading me astray from reality, honestly, but I don't focus on that; I focus every ounce of my brain power on you. 

The reoccuring thoughts that stream through me though are of the previous days' visit, my visit to you more like, I try not to tire myself with the past in general, which of course you are not part of as you are all tenses of time imaginable to me, yet I regret not staying there all day. And honestly and most importantly, I regret not telling that woman as she pulled her child away that you were in fact a soldier, you were in fact important, yet I was never good with words and nothing ever came out. You would have never let that slide if our roles were reversed. I hope you understand though my petty excuses make me seem otherwise, that although she refused to acknowledge, or decided to be ignorant, you were my whole entire world and grew more than that by the minute. If that is insignificant, then so be it.

Oh, and I love you. 

I made a pact yesterday whilst writing my second draft of this that I would slip that in as often as I can till the last time my pen formulates words at all.

In case.