spilled ink: Dear Crush

They say that writing is easy – all you have to do is open a vein, and bleed. It is hoped that with every word we spill, we are one step closer to the authentic self. The spilled ink series encourages everyone to reflect, ponder, and share – to tell stories. With these pieces, we hope to explore the art of writing collectively with BRIDGE and the Waterloo Architecture community.

Dear crush,

I hate you. I hate you and the man you turn me into. When your laughter rings across the room, needles of envy pierce my eardrums. Talking to you gives me seizure-like stutters in a voice octaves higher than my own. Cupid’s arrow poisons me with restless dreams and mutates my heart into a jackhammer. You can’t imagine how flustered a caramel-skinned Bengali boy has to be for his cheeks to visibly turn red. Babe, you make me beyond miserable but I find that, to my detriment, sexy as hell.

I abhor you and the images you plant in my imagination. Every interaction, every collision, and every smile we exchange adds another minute of you lingering in my head. I see pictures of you. You of all people know how much I detest that gooey kind of infatuation: the type that makes you throw rocks at windows, the type that Hollywood fetishizes. It angers me that I’ve fallen in this spiraling cyclone of passion, the same kind that moved mythical armies and toppled heroes. How ironic that I’ve become the lovesick idiot we both find so obnoxious!

I hate how you make me feel so lost and powerless. In a consumerist society where romance is bountiful and passion is ripe, how does an emotionally reserved and broke student compete for your affection? How can I charm you when every romantic line is a distasteful cliche?

Most importantly, I hate how momentary these feelings are. I know that this youthful infatuation is simply a ritual that will end only to begin anew. Falling in love, after all, is only beautiful until you land. Eventually, your laughter will fade into the background, my chest will grow still and the sputtering engine that was my mouth will run smoothly once again.

I hope I am not misunderstood: this is not a confession but an attempt at catharsis. Soon, I’ll regain my composure and life will continue as it did before. Until then I’ll wallow in this passing heartache and admire from afar.

Love,
Lyric Barnik