How is life measured?

“The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we always compare our behind the scenes with someone else’s highlight reels.”  —Steven Furtick

Have you done something relevant today?

Prove it. Post a photo, tweet it, blog about where you went and who you were with and what you bought.

How cool are you? How hip? How pretty? Post it and let the number of comments and “likes” dictate how valuable you are.

I’ll be the first to admit that this is the prevailing message I get every day as I clamber out of bed. It seems that in this selfie generation, we measure people by their highlight reels posted all over social media while we feel stupid and lazy and ugly, thinking: How is it they can travel, eat, or buy what I can only dream about while I endlessly toil in an 8 to 5 job, go home exhausted, only to feel more insecure as I see more of these “look what I did today” posts and repeat the endless cycle the next morning?

It begs the question: How is my life really measured?

Am I measured by the things people see? The currency we deal with now is status and material things. We are unconsciously always pining to show people we are better than they think we are by endlessly broadcasting anything in the line of self-promotion. If this is the case, how come I have never met a patient on his deathbed wishing he had been promoted more, or had more money, and bought more things?

It’s always relationships. People always wish they had more time for relationships. It’s all anyone says when faced with mortality.

I wish I invested more time in relationships. That I had laughed more and hugged more instead of being arrogant and competitive. To have listened more than speak. To have given importance to being kind rather than being right. That I had often looked into her eyes and been in the moment rather than sat through dinner typing away at a smartphone.

There are remarkable people in this world—shiny, glimmering in the spotlight, successful, confident, and brave. But I’ve noticed that there are also the quiet ones: They get up each day without any fanfare or parade. They live the day without the need to prove anything, and throughout life refuse to make ripples or gain recognition. They would rather have as their reward the gentle laughter through a family dinner, the sweetness of cuddling her husband, the stories they share when he drives his son to school. They measure life by love and hard work and sacrifice. They speak a simple truth, and can be counted on the most.

While we admire the first kind with all their positions and wealth and status, I find myself daily being drawn toward the second.

Heaven's antonym

Hell isn't beneath the earth, it's on it.

After hours of extreme thinking and brain squeezing, I couldn't think of the right word, exact adjective or the right description I can use to describe that place I was in last night. I was doubting myself already. I checked how many hours I consumed already in the internet cafe and I had been sitting and just staring blankly to the computer monitor with a blank MS Word open.I was on the edge already of giving up and stop hoping that my name together with my article will soon be chosen by Youngblood and soon be printed. But I told myself that the world needs to know that there's a place on earth like hell, if not it's probably an inch near to it. I was there and I definitely wanna go back.

He couldn’t or hasn’t or wouldn’t or wasn’t

Sometimes, I just wish I'm not blessed with an unusually retentive memory. It sometimes feels like a curse because I can't control which memories will  be omitted or retained.  

Remembering my childhood is like bleeding out the memory. It’s like reopening a sutured wound and letting it bleed profusely. If memories can kill, I’d be dying every day.

I grew up without any father figure—you know, the hard-core authority you look up to, with a belt in one hand and terrifying knuckles in the other. No one pushed me to be active in any rough-and-tumble activities like sports; I wasn’t taught how to engage in hand-to-hand combat when somebody is spoiling for a fight, bragging when on the offensive or moving suavely when on the defense.

This is not to say that I never learned to be a man (because I did, and all that came from my mother), but this is one kind of wound in my life that needed healing—the absence of a father.

I thought this invisible wound would be, at the least, soothed that cloudy day of June 11 year 2010. I was to meet my father for the first time in forever (with no reference to “Frozen,” but with reference to how I had never met him ever since I was born). However, it didn’t take too long to figure out that the event of meeting him just meant rubbing salt on this wound.

Prepared, I was. I told a few of my closest friends about the prospect of meeting my father, and I asked them what I should do. Should I choose not to see him (after all, I have grown into the man that I am today without even a pinch of support from him)? Or should I be polite and kiss his hand, mano po (after all, he is still my father)?

Of course I chose to do the latter; this was not a misguided episode of a dramatic movie (and I didn’t want it to be like one either). And I hoped that for that simple Filipino gesture, he’d understand that I still had the highest respect for him and that he was not completely shut out of my life. I think that was clear enough to begin with.

But when our eyes met for the first time ever, it seemed as if I was never his son; it was like I was just some family friend, or a nephew. It broke my heart.

“You’re studying in Silliman, right?” he said in our language. Those were his first words to me. Underwhelming. It was as if I were dead excited waiting for a baby to speak his first words, only to realize that the baby was mute. Except that my father wasn’t mute, he was just numb.

“Yes,” I replied obligingly, and didn’t add anything else. And neither did he. That suggested the beginning of a long night.

If there was any impression I got from that meeting, it was that I now knew where I got my quick wit and clever remarks. In other words, I got my “joker” or "funny" personality from my father. This is one for the books, because other than his “man juice,” the only thing I had received from him was a P1,000 bill Christmas of 2008.

My father talked very proudly of his three children—my half sisters. The night was nothing but him sharing his life with his three girls, a few funny interjections here and there, and beer. It was some sort of getting-to-know-you game except that he was the only one playing it. He was a mouthful.

“You’re not an alcoholic,” he told my older brother. “You only become one if you’ve drunk more than three bottles of beer in one sitting.”

“And don’t you drink that much?” my brother said.

“I stop counting on the second bottle,” he said. The people at the table, myself included, broke out in resounding laughter.

I did get to know him more, but I was hoping he’d want to get to know me, too. For the whole night, he asked me only these questions (not including the first):

“What’s your sport?” (Taking pride in being a sports enthusiast.)

“Scrabble,” I said jokingly, then added: “Swimming and badminton.”

He nodded.

“What year are you in again?”

“Going on third year,” I said, hoping for an inspiring remark.

He nodded.

“What’s your course?”

“Mass communication,” I said.

“Oh, your mom is Miss Mass Com,right?”

I nodded.

These questions weren’t asked in succession. He turned to me to ask them only when the crowd at the table succumbed to silence. These questions, to me, sounded so elementary. Was that all he needed to know about me? Wasn’t he concerned about anything else? After 18 years, the only question he could muster involved the sport I was engaged in. I wasn’t even given the cliché “Kamusta (How are you)?” Underwhelming.

I was dying to know why he didn’t converse with me—as in a real, long conversation. Our interpersonal exchange of thoughts consisted only of the casual questions and the resulting nods. I had hoped for better. I sulked inside. I really did.

My timorous heart broke again when we dropped him off at the hotel where he was staying; it was possibly one of the last times I would get to see him again because his trip back to US was scheduled early the following day. And it wasn’t the goodbye that broke my heart…

He said his collective goodbye to everyone and then turned his attention to my brother’s girlfriend in the front seat. “Hey, this will possibly be the last time I see you…” he said. I chose to not listen to him speak anymore, but I guess he continued his remark by saying, “so take care.” And then I decided to just blank out.

In my mind, I was telling him: “Dad, it’s the first time you have ever seen me in person, and it could be the last time you’d see me, too. Aren’t you happy you finally met your son? Don’t you want to get to know me more? Don’t I need to take care of myself, too? Do you even recognize my existence as your son, your supposed responsibility? Don’t you love me, Dad?”

I crumbled in the back seat.

At this point, I’m slowly coming to terms with the difference between “father” and “dad.” And at this point also, I’ve decided that for every time I called him “Dad,” I would be lying to myself. How can you call someone “Dad” when you have never been loved by him? How can you call someone “Dad” when your first meeting seemed to be such a casual encounter, and not something that would help patch up things, that would help heal past pains, and that would help soothe this perpetual wound?

I am frustrated, angry, and heartbroken. But I am nowhere near remorseful.

Father, I wish any bit of your soul loved me. But I’ve wished for far too long, and it’s time to move on from something I know that will never happen.

Because the truth is, you couldn’t or hasn’t or wouldn’t or wasn’t really my dad.

What does that faster heartbeat means?

“Sometimes some things are never meant to be understood but rather accepted.”

The alarm clock had been ringing several times already but Darryl was still on his bed. He’s expressionless and seems dead while sleeping. The room was messy and his bed was full of crumpled papers. It was Tuesday and he was supposed to have his 8:30 class but it’s already 9 o’clock in the morning.

“Darryl! Wake up! Don’t you have a class?” His elder sister Stella shouted from the outside of his room and knocked the door twice. But Stella never received even a single reply. She knocked it again and this time with greater force. There was silence. Stella’s face was worried and she knocks it again but still Darryl’s voice was not evident.

Stella went on her mom’s old room and she was looking for something. In the box, in the corridor, in the cabinet, “Where’s the key?” She nervously asked herself. Until she found it in one of the corners of the cabinet. She hurriedly went back to Darryl’s room and opened the door.

“What happened Darryl?” Stella asked as she went near to his brother who was sitting on his bed with tears falling down his cheeks.

“She’s gone!” Darryl said in a trembling and husky voice. In a minute or two, Stella did not utter a single word as she looked at his brother intently. It was her first time to see her brother cry and it was also the first time that her once brat and hard-headed brother held her hand, hugged her tight and cried as if a little kid on her shoulder.

“I know what that faster heartbeat means…”

The thought repeatedly ran on Darryl’s mind. He wanted to forget those moments and those memoirs that would just bring tears on his eyes and pain on his heart. But everything seemed to be very fresh still.

He remembered himself on those happiest moments in his life that seems to be just a dream. The fact that he had changed and transformed into a man and the thought that he had those faster heartbeats that confused him was a totally hard to forget.

Darryl was known to be a spoiled brat and a hard-headed boy at home and in school. Everyone seemed to know him. But an incident changed everything. This lady named Kim changed him.

Kim was one of the editors of a student publication in school. She’s a passionate writer indeed. Aside from that, she’s amazingly beautiful and alluring. Every guy would be tempted to look at her whenever she passed by. She’s indeed noticeable because of her unique beauty.

One afternoon while Daryl was puffing a cigarette stick on his mouth outside their house, her younger sister Ana just arrived home from school with a couple of classmates with her. One of them was Kim who was bringing some books and a box of cake.

Darryl was seemed paralyzed as his cigarette stick fell down and his sight was directed only to Kim.

“What’s that faster heartbeat means?”

“Kuya, are you alright?” Ana confusingly asked her brother but Darryl was silent giving his sister no single reply.

“What’s happening to you Kuya?” Ana asked the second time around.

“I… I am okay…” Darryl said with a trembling voice with his eyes still on Kim.

“We’ll get inside because we will be making some school stuffs.” Ana said as they went inside their house.

“What’s that faster heartbeat means?”

Kim left a sweet smile on Darryl as she got inside. Darryl seemed drowned into the deepest ocean on earth that moment.

Darryl placed his right hand on his left chest and felt his heart palpitate. His heart was beating faster and he’s definitely confused.

“What’s that faster heartbeat means?”

That was the start of Darryl’s’ sleepless nights. His heartbeat, the face of Kim and the unusual feeling that he could never understand made him more confused. It was the first time ever in his life that he felt that way. First time of a feeling that no single word can describe.

“What’s that faster heartbeat means?”

Darryl stood up from his bed, got a paper and pen and sat down on his study table. He seemed thinking so deep. He keeps on scratching his hair and punching the table.

“What’s that faster heartbeat means?”

Suddenly, Darryl held the pen on his hand and started writing on a sheet of paper. He stopped and scratched his hair again and seemed confuse. Then he wrote again. Until he finally tore and crumpled the paper and threw it in one corner of his room.

“What’s that faster heartbeat means?”

The room was messy and crumpled papers were around. Darryl was holding an envelope had put a folded paper on it. He smiled and he hurriedly stood up.

Darryl went to his younger sister’s room and asked her if she could give the envelope which obviously contains a letter to Kim. Ana happily accepted the letter and gave it to Kim.

Kim received the letter and read it.

Kim,

It took me sleepless nights before I had written this letter. The messy room and the crumpled papers. I don’t know!
I really can’t sleep every night because whenever I try to close my eyes, your face is all that I see. The faster heartbeats, your face and the unusual feeling that’s paralyzing me. I don’t know!

I believe that I can’t write as good as you do. But the fact that I had expressed this confusing feeling I have for you through this letter is a total relief. Thank you for this unusual feeling that I don’t know.
And I am left asking myself, what’s this faster heartbeat means?

Daryll

The letter made the lady smile and admitted to herself that she felt the same way too. She liked Darryl from the first she saw him and she already had confessions with the feeling to her friends.

Days pass by, Darryl who was once a brat and a hard-headed boy transformed into courageous and a real man. Kim made Darryl as her close friend. They went out to eat together, shopped, went to church and did almost everything that made both of them close to each other.

And there was silence. Darryl was on his room and his thoughts seemed endless. He smiled and noticed something. His heart is beating faster again.

“What’s that faster heartbeat means?”

“Kuya! Kuya!” Ana was shouting from the outside while knocking the door of Darryl’s room. Darryl immediately opened the door.

“What Ana? What happened?” Darryl worriedly asked.

“Kim… Kim…” Ana in her trembling voice.

“What happened to Kim? Tell me!” Darryl asked while nagging her sister’s shoulder.

“Kim was hit by the car!” Ana cried like a kid chasing her very breathe.

Darryl ran outside their house where few meters away he saw lots of people. He ran as fast as he could to that place. Tears started falling from his eyes.

There he saw Kim lying, unconscious and with blood scattered on the ground. He’s speechless, cold sweat started to come out from his body as he stares blankly at the scene.

Darryl began to kneel down, screamed and cried.

“Kim! Why did you leave me?” Darryl screamed and howled as he held the body of Kim.

He saw Kim holding an envelope. And as he is about to hug Kim, policemen started getting the dead body of the lady while Darryl was still crying and screaming.

Everything seemed so fast. Darryl became so quit while he was still on the ground. Tears kept on falling and he started opening the envelope. It was a letter for him. Kim was on her way to Darryl’s house to give the letter when that tragic incident happened.

Dear Darryl,

It is such a nice feeling! You said it’s unusual but it’s nice. It’s the reason why I smile each day. It is also the reason why I want to wake up each morning. The feeling gave me the chance to know you better and even better each day.

“What’s that faster heartbeat means?”

You keep on asking that question from the start. You noticed I was just silent. It was because I feel the same way too. I tried to figure out each day what it really means. From the day I met you until this very moment. I am really not sure if I can give you the right answer to your constant question but I’ll try. Who knows? I might get it right.

“What’s that faster heartbeat means?”

Darryl… The faster heartbeat means love. It means love. It is the unusual feeling that no single word can describe.

It means love. We were both happy when we were together and our heart beats faster as if its only one.

It means love! I love you…

Love,
Kim

Darryl crumpled the paper as he screamed and cried louder this time.

“I know what that faster heartbeat means…”

A ride with Santa

When I was five, I was told by my late grandpa, Lolo Angel that I should be expecting a lot of gifts from Santa Claus on December 24, the night before Christmas Day because I had been a very good kid. Then I asked him, "Lo, why do I have to expect for gifts from Santa? You told me one time that we should never expect something in return for every good thing we do". He smiled to me and replied, "Apo, you're very mature for your age." Lolo Anghel was the first one to say that I am very mature for my age. That description had always been tagged to me since I was a kid but I never believed nor thought of it.

It made me think back then that in a lot of ways you're probably more mature than the people around you, and possibly even more intelligent. But if you have to tell people you're mature, you're probably not. It is not gained by being intellectually advanced but experience will make you one without you knowing or even noticing it.

Since I was a kid, it had always been my wish every Christmas to see and meet Santa. But unlike other children of my age, I wanted to meet Santa not to receive plenty of gifts but I always wanted to ride on his reindeer sleigh. Together with those children expecting for gifts, I know that like them it isn't happening after two to three years of wishing and waiting. However, I believed that it may not happen the way we expected it to be but it will come true in a different way. A more special way.

"Is there really a Santa Claus, papa?", I can still vividly remember my cousin Lovely (who's just a month older than me) when we were still eight asking her papa that question after years of waiting for Santa and failed to receive any present, even one. Late Tito Nestor (who died last 2011 due to a liver disease) was not able to answer back immediately. He was trying to figure out what excuse he will make for the nth time since he already instilled her daughter's mind the thought about Santa Claus and the receiving of gifts every Christmas. Just because he wanted her daughter to be good every year.

After minutes of puzzling out the right answer, Tito Nestor laughed and never say a thing, when I heard it, I then went near my cousin and sat beside her. "Kabalo ka cuz (we call each other "cuz" short for "cousin" when we were little until today), naa ma'y Santa Claus ug tinood man na naa siya gift nimo every year samot na kay ga binut-an ka." (You know what cuz, there is really Santa Claus and it's true that he is giving you gifts every year especially that you had been very good.") My cousin frowned then replied, "Apan wala ko'y nadawat cuz bisan ika-usa?" ("But I did not receive anything even just once.").

"Kita ka ana'ng daghan nimo'ng dolls ug toys? Kana'ng mga nindot nimo na sanina ug sapatos? Ug tanan na gihatag sa imo mama ug papa nimo. Sa tinood lang, gikan man na ni Santa Claus. Si papa ug mama ra nimo ang iya gipahatag nimo. Si Tito Nestor sad naa gift from Santa kay gihatagan siya ug trabaho para mapalit nila imo mga ganahan. Ang pagkaon nato kada-adlaw, gikan sad na niya. Ug tanan na naa ta, kana tanan gikan niya. Kabalo ka kinsa jud ang tinood na Santa? Si Papa Jesus. Siya ang tinood na Santa." (Do you see those dolls and all the toys you have? The beautiful clothes and shoes you wear everyday. Everything that your parents gave you. The truth is, it came from Santa. He just asked your mama and papa to give it to you. Even Tito Nestor has a gift from Him. He gave Tito a good job to provide you with all your needs and wants. The food the we eat every day, it came from him. And everything that we have, it all came from Him. You know who the real Santa is? He is Papa Jesus. He is the real Santa.")

My cousin seemed confused about what I said giving me another sad face but I knew that time that she still can't figure out what I meant. Tito Nestor then interrupted us, tapped my shoulder and said, "Angelo, you're very mature for your age. Eventually, Lovely will understand everything. Thank you."

At a young age, I learned to appreciate every little thing I have because I know how it feels to have nothing. I grew up with the mindset my mama keep on reminding us that you can't eat three times a day and you will never get what you need and want if you will not work hard hard for it. It isn't easy to live but we don't have any choice since we're unfortunately born poor.

My mama is a supermom! She worked alone very hard to provide us what we need. My father got imprisoned when I was still three while we are still staying in Manila then mama eventually decided that we move to my grandparents place in the province because she can't work while nobody's there to look after us because we're too young.

I never asked mama the reason why papa got imprisoned, I just found it by myself although it took me some time to understand the law term like those of my father's case coded in Republic Act 8294 of the Philippine Constitution  "Illegal and unlawful possession, manufacture, dealing in, acquisition or disposition of firearm". Until now that I knew a lot already but I still don't know the reason and the real story behind what happened. I also chose not to find out. Papa was dismissed from his case when I was 11 and followed us in the province. It was a painful memory but that painful memory will always remind me that you should never love your parents less just because they did something wrong in the past. Why? Because our parents love for us will never be subtracted from each mistake we make but instead multiplied . Honestly, we're not that close with my father but I know that he loves me and I love him so much more than any man in the world.

Growing up in an imperfect and a "not well-off" family taught me at a very young age the importance of being contented and thankful for every little thing that God provides. While I was still in my elementary years, I used to go with my mom every weekend to help her do the laundry of a number of people. Aside from being a vendor of ready-made food or viand, mama is also a "labandera". But never did I get ashamed of it because mama had instilled in our minds that as long as you are doing what is right and good, there's no single reason for you to be ashamed of what you do.

I excelled greatly at school. My determination to succeed for my family had been undaunted. My burning desire to help my family made me so eager to finish school in an instant. I felt that I'm so useless when I'm at school because I can't help my parents earn money. So when the opportunity knocked hard on my doorstep, grabbed it as fast as the lightning. During my fourth grade, I found out that there are some competitions for elementary pupils that I can join that entails cash prices if you win. One sunny morning at school, right after the flag ceremony, my teacher announced that there is an environmental story writing contest sponsored by Rizal Commercial Banking Corporation (RCBC) entitled "Kwentong Kabataan, Katha ng Kabataaan" open for everyone in the elementary level. I immediately spent a sleepless night writing a piece that I can submit. I made a story entitled "Because of the Banana Peeling" and it highlighted the dangers brought by throwing garbage anywhere. I submitted it the next day and my teacher was surprised on how fast I was able to make it. "Ma'am, I spent one sleepless night for this story because I wanted help mama and papa. If I will win, they don't have to worry about our electric bill this month and our food for the days to come", I shared. My amazed fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Miraflor smiled to me and said, "Angelo, I admire you because at a very young age, you already think of helping your family. You're so mature for your age."

I won in the regional level competition for the story I made "Because of the Banana Peeling" and I received a cash prize worth Php 3, 000.00. I never thought of the prestige that comes with it, all I knew was I can give a little help for my family with the cash prize I got and I can make them happy. Their happiness is my happiness. My piece competed in the national level after winning in the region with thousands of participants, unfortunately it did not win. Despite that, I was still thankful because although I'm at school, I can still help mama and papa with the expenses at home. I continued joining competitions until high school like quiz bowl, extemporaneous speaking contests, oratorical contests, story/essay writing contests, press conferences, name it because I joined almost all of it for my family. I went to a lot of places in the country without spending a penny to compete. It was not a victory all the time but I always know how to accept defeat. That was my life when I was still a student.

"A wonder boy", that's what they call me back then. High expectations from people on me being successful in an instant. I was perfect for everyone who knew me including my family. Probably the reason why all of them keep on telling me that I am mature for my age mainly because of the way I think, my intelligence, my ability to do things extraordinarily and my actions. But they have not thought that maturity is more than that. They have not thought that there's no easy way to success. There are no shortcuts. So when my first failure and mistake came, everyone, in just a blink of an eye, forgot all good things I did. They have forgotten the many times I won and succeeded, the numerous times I went up the stage to receive numerous awards and medals, those times that I helped them and was able to put smiles on their faces. Everything good and positive about me was diminished in their memory like that of someone who has amnesia just because of a single mistake and never did they realize that I am not my mistake.

It made me think and go back my childhood where all I wish every Christmas was not to receive gifts from Santa Claus but to have a ride with him. They keep on telling that I'm very mature for my age although I know that I'm not. They had never asked me even once every Christmas why riding on Santa's reindeer sleigh was all that I desire. Since the day I knew Christmas and learned about Santa Claus, it had always been my heart’s desire to have a ride with Santa because I believed back then and until at the present time that He is Jesus Christ hiding in the image of Santa. I want to have a ride with Him and talk to Him. I have lists of questions to Him since I was kid until today that I always wanted to ask because I know that Google, Wikipedia, my professors and my brain can't answer. I wanted to talk to Him to say “thank you” for everything that I see and touch.

It’s Christmas again a month from now and I’m still holding tight to my ultimate wish in the past 18 years will one day come true. As what I told my cousin, Lovely when we were still little kids that our wishes may not happen the way we expected it to be but it will sure come true in a very special way.

I have high hopes. And when that special day comes, I will surely make it a memorable ride with Santa.

Angelo Bart V. Nabalse had stopped writing articles, poems, stories, write ups for the past 3 years and “A ride with Santa” is his first write up after 3 years. He is currently a member of GABAA-AN YOUTH LEAD, a “Youth Facilitating Team” who’s mission is to uplift young people from all forms of suffering and want, equipping them with necessary skills and knowledge to face boldly the future. Visit https://www.facebook.com/gabaanyouthlead for more info about GABA-AN YOUTH LEAD.


Email:
bartchewingpoetry@gmail.com  / nabalse_angelo@yahoo.com 
Facebook: 
https://www.facebook.com/angelloisenabalse 
Twitter:

https://www.twitter.com/ImAngeloNabalse

"I KNOW"

(I saw this poem in my locker 4 years ago when I was still in college and the writer is anonymous- Whoever wrote this one, thank you.)
Friday, February 12, 2010 at 10:26am

” I Know “

I wrote this during the time when I was inspired. Yes, I was inspired then by a man. His name is Angelo V. Nabalse. I saw him that afternoon in school. Suddenly, i got this feeling that I want to write something about him. Something that can perfectly define what I felt for him that very moment I laid my eyes on him. He was my first crush but he wasn’t and isn’t my first love. I like him very much. I look up at him as my role model. My inspiration. So, to Mr. Angelo Nabalse, if you are reading this, I offer this poem with all of my heart to you…….


I Know


Image of him dances on my eyes

Everything-

His features, his clothes

His expressions

Oh, I really don’t know why

I really don’t.

Bumps are on me when he’s around

But the world is pink on my eyes

The sky is clear.

Birds are singing.

I feel like I am in heaven.

For sure, this must be something

Something that is foreign on me

‘Coz I can feel that my heart bleeds for him

Bleeding carefully,

Smoothly,

And yet, painfully

‘Coz I know that it has nothing in return

But I simply don’t care

For I like this feeling

I love the way it feels

‘Coz now I know…….

This must be it………

This must be LOVE……