The following is a series I originally began to write in November for creative writing class. My heart poured out words upon words, and it ended up being a five-part series that I thought would be best to compile onto this blog. The format for these pieces is the actual writing, and then a short explanation at the end. The pieces tell about an adolescent male who has fallen in love with someone who he deems to be unattainable, and this eventually changes him as a person completely: once he is entranced by romance, life can no longer remain the same. Comment below which one was your favourite, and I’m intrigued to hear your guesses as to who these two people are.

 

S T A R S T R U C K – Entrancing and Romancing Part 1

She was a star. And I was a comet. She was hot, and I – well, not so much. But, getting close to her made me feel a lot warmer. Like I was burning up. What’s that? It’s called blushing?

But this comet had grown far too old for the beaming smiles radiating forth from those wondrous lips. So I knew that I couldn’t stay around her for long. A quick pass by, I doubt she even noticed me for a second, as insignificant as I was, there was a certain shellshockery in discovering the way she held her hand up to her face as she laughed, almost ashamed to break such perfect character.

They say one look is permissible; that perhaps if I looked into those beautiful lips encasing such a perfect smile, I’d have time to look away. That perhaps if for even a second, I gazed upon the beautiful blemishes left upon her cheeks by the compliments she had received so bountifully, I’d have time to look away. That perhaps, if, if, if, our eyes met perchance in an impossible world I would time to look away.

They say one look is permissible, and I sure made it a long one. And they never told me that perhaps she’d look right into my eyes, remnants from a smile splayed forth from a joke not heard nor told by myself.

Starstruck. I was starstruck. She was ascending the stairs to heaven as I went down the other place, our eyes met for a moment. Temptations that tripped me and threw me down the steps, falling at the foot of Satan, or so I thought. But I cannot go to hell, for I am all out of vacation days. So I’m in heaven with you, and your angelic beauty shrouds me in a jealousy so deep and heinous that I can’t help but wish I never saw you on that lazy summer morning.

There is a certain pleasure in appreciating the beauty of a blooming flower in a garden. This was not like that. For every day I stared longingly into those sickle-shaped eyes and imagined what it would be like to touch just a strand of her hair reminded me of what I was and where I stood. I was one among many of her admirers, yet to whom her heart beat was not known to me. The way she laughed freely around her circle of followers and reflected her longing eyes to others; I knew I would never have the honour to receive even a word from her.

And that stayed true, as long as I allowed myself to believe it. But one day, the opportunity was too good to let fly by. The swing of her orbit had lined up perfectly with mine, and it was time for gravity to pull us together.

 

I never thought that I’d be writing this piece. Last year, I had essentially sworn off from writing romantically, for my few efforts had produced nothing worthy of submission. Now, however, you have just read the first part of “Entrancing and Romancing”, my first venture into a series of romantic prosaic pieces. I would like for there to be five parts in total, all based off of one feeling, emotion, and common thought. This one may or may not be true to my own life, but what I really went for here was to explore what fantasies can come of one look somewhere in a hallway, on the train, or on board a flight. One look can change so much.

 

F O R G O T T E N – Entrancing and Romancing Part 2

Forgive me.

Forgive me, for my words were not filtered enough before they reached your divine ears.

Forgive me, for I had forgotten the light-years of distance that divided us.

Forgive me, for I was foolish in thinking that a few sentences would create anything between us.

Forgive me, but do not forget me. I am selfish and I know that the few minutes I managed to pull your attention towards me were of no significance to you. I am selfish, so I want to believe that I held some measly amount of importance within your amazing life. Truth be told, I often imagine myself as one of them; the ones who take for granted your radiant beauty and close their eyes upon your magnificence. If I was like that, I wouldn’t be in hell. But I’d rather be in this hell instead of never knowing that there was an angel somewhere, an angel that unknowingly doomed me to that place by her very existence. I should just end my life, knowing that it’s going to be full of this jealousy and worthlessness forever.

But she just posted on Instagram, so I’m gonna have to hold off on suicide for a while. At least until I can forget the delicate swooshes of her eyebrows and perfectly innocent smile. Until I can forget the way her ears just peek in front of her smooth locks of hair. Until I can forget what it was like to fall down the stairs, shellshocked with too much emotion to remember how to hold myself upright.

Until I can forget what it was like to somehow hold a five-minute conversation with the angel. For you see, I’m not as hopeless as I seem. I am the underdog, but I’ll still go kicking and screaming down to hell. Not in front of her, though.

In front of her: that charismatic smile I’ve been cultivating for years, that casual posture leaning just so against the wall. Eye contact – for five minutes. 300 seconds of an uninterrupted glimpse into the soul of an angel.

But one quick ‘hello’ doesn’t mean anything. Not even in the short run. It’s merely a consolation to myself that I’m not as much of a dumbass that I know I have the potential to be. Which, although I most certainly am, does not increase my chances of getting to talk with a beautiful girl.

I don’t wish to be one of the forgotten. The ones left in the ditch as your grace flew on to the next flower. I’m not afraid that you’ll use me; I’d gladly take that. You use something when you can extract some sort of benefit out of it, and I would be honoured to be your footstool.

Stop it.

I don’t want to forget you, but I don’t want to be this helpless. I’m done with the excuses and exasperated metaphors that undermine myself every time.  I’m done with feeling so different, as though all my senses become instantly impaired when I witness your presence. I’m done with forgetting the cool, charismatic self I used to be before I met you. There has to be a way to have you and my sanity.

 

This is the second installment of “Entrancing and Romancing”, a series of five short pieces that explore the exasperated sighs of love from a youth towards someone who he feels he barely knows. The first part and the beginning of this piece really show how sometimes one feels so disproportionately small to those whom he loves, almost as though he notices every single thing about them while they blissfully continue their lives without ever knowing about their admirer. However, I took a turn with the ending, by saying how the protagonist is not going to make excuses to allow his love to forget him, and instead is going to try to be himself whilst also win over her affections.

Aaaaa

E N J A M B – Entrancing and Romancing Part 3

enjambment, noun :

the running on of the thought from one line, couplet, or stanza to the next without a syntactical break.

 

On my mind

are the lines.

The lines your divinity etched

into me.

I’m not one to sketch but

I would call myself an artist in another way,

so please; why don’t you turn my way?

Though these stars may seem so far away

I promise I can bring them to you

before you see the day

rearing its head around to tell

us that tonight is the night

that I shoot my shot;

I’ll show you that I’ve got

something that can’t be bought.

 

Those sickle-shaped eyes

and fair skin

and perfectly brushed

black hair framing your gorgeous figure.

I could go on and on, but the point is

these lines flow like

my jokes told as I lean against the door’s jamb,

and you laugh and cover your mouth with a hand,

but darling you know I’d let you slam

that door in my face

if you’d kiss the bruises away.

 

On my mind

are your eyes, but

in my eyes is your mind

because I no longer see only you on the outside.

And I could write these lines forever,

for no page be filled

and my hand shall pain never

for your smiles leave me thrilled,

and maybe if you just looked at me in the way that I look at you

and maybe if you expressed the same longing

you’d see what pulls me to you:

each moment not long enough

yet an eternity of stuff to write

these lines;

the sanctity of which will break

by the dozens of eyes who will wonder:

“for whom does his heart ache?”

 

But this heart aches no more,

and it’s time to settle the score:

just as these lines shall not be broken by a comma

or a semicolon or period

just as this enjambment shall go on and on

as spent as my heart now

a myriad of sighs of love for you

so, will you make my dreams come true?

 

Thank you for reading part three of my romance series. For this piece, I decided to change my focus quite a bit: normally I use self-deprecating humour and pessimism from the speaker’s perspective to frame my elaborate metaphors, but this time, my words could not be held back and these lines spilled across the page and refused to be contained by the traditions of punctuation. Hopefully, this story will go on just like this for our protagonist, and hopefully, he finds what he’s been longing for this whole time.

 

S P O T L I G H T – Entrancing and Romancing Part 4

There she is; clad beautifully in the colours of angels, standing near the back, though she holds first place in my heart. She’ll win the award for best kisser ever – I’m sure, though I haven’t been able to judge for myself. Thankfully, no other has received the first contact from those electrifying lips; leaving me to be the harbinger of love yet to come.

And although they will try to cover you up by putting hordes of people in front, I will pick out your beautiful ears just poking out of your hair, and the delicate curve of your nose as it forms so gracefully. They will try to push you to the side, but the spotlight of my eyes will be focussed on you the whole time; no other shall capture my vision as you have locked mine to your figure.

The spotlight of these stars now shines as you gaze up into them with wonder, innocence plain upon your face not blemished by anything that you’d have acquired from some ungenuine experience. The spotlight of your eyes; a colour never before seen or sampled, shocking all with the quality of radiance and lustre.  The spotlight now of your fingers, the touch of your skin burning and electrifying each square centimeter of me – ‘friendly’ touches though your skin lets on more than the suggestions and my skin will redden and spike though my expression shall mask true intent.

Perhaps the spotlight does not intend to isolate us thus. It does not pull us together on stage and then purposefully blind us to no one but each other. For this is a sinister light; it doesn’t wish us to have each other or caress each other in the light for all to see.

So I make my own spotlight. Cascading red, yellows, and blues, dim and blinding lights that I am the master of.  You do not control where my heart pulls me – not even I can do that. You cannot turn off my spotlight. You cannot dim it, turn it to someone more attractive, taller, or muscular. You cannot come upon this stage with your security and wrestle me from my spot. And if you do, I will be right back up there. Because the spotlight of my heart channels through my eyes, through my arms, coursing within me the strength I need to break through the chains and find her. If you blind me, the richness of her laughter will make me see into the depths of my own insecurities, blinding and shrouding them in light until they no longer exist.  And if somehow, you kill my ability to hold her, I’m sure her search for me would never end. These exasperated sighs hold more mutual truth within them than either of us shall ever know; the extent to which is reciprocated an amount that I shall never know.

There are souls pining for a chance to get a glimpse of the spotlight that your eyes now focus on me. There is an infinity of movement that we can do under this light together; we may dance here forever, in the envious eyes of others. There are no lights that burn with the intensity of mine: each one now reduced to the luminosity of a mere torch in comparison to the chandelier I hold for you.

And now that it has gone dark, and the only lights are our eyes; mine: cynical, humorous, and burdened; yours: unaware of their own beauty. Allow us to fuse the shadows, and double this darkness, so that we may multiply our shine and elevate into a new realm of radiance.

 

Now that we are nearing the end of our saga, our protagonist is getting closer and closer to his goal. However, what is it that he is striving for? Is it love? Perhaps it is, although sometimes the pursuit is more rewarding than the end goal. With this piece, I used the symbolism of light and particularly the lights on a stage to describe our character’s view on the sight of his interest, and this is also the first piece in which we are let into knowing that his feelings might be reciprocated to an extent if he is a reliable narrator. With only one part left to go, it will be interesting to see how this saga will end.

 

E N T R A N C E D – Entrancing and Romancing Finale

There he is: flashing that wild charismatic smile at the onlookers who only see a fraction of it – they do not ponder it like I do; explore its crevices and valleys, and the glint of intensity in his eyes. They see that smile and see it as what it is: a smile. But they don’t see the loving, confidently stupid quality in it: the bits that tell you to take it slow and absorb each second, and the bits that tell you there isn’t enough time to do everything that you want to do in life. But there is just enough of that precious time to drink in your smile, and your eyes: cynical and yet caressing, and your mouth and ears and arms and everything that combines to show the emotion that not even you have command over. 

But I know that I have command over your emotions. I have seen your exasperated sighs scribbled and then smoothened and perfected for all to see. And though you claim those words are for no one in particular, I read your words of love for the girl with ‘sickle-shaped eyes’ and her dark hair just ‘poking out of her ears’ – and I realize that lucky girl is me. I know there are so many who would do anything to hear those words – and yet, for some reason, you reserve them for me.

There she is: the thirst that no drink can quench save perhaps the potential chance at a glimpse of her soul. She sits there quietly; she needs not to flaunt her own beauty, for that which is most beautiful craves no attention. I am surrounded by faces; I give each one my smile: the one I go home and practice every day, for I want the world to know how I feel when they see my face. I want the world to know, but not the dozens of people I walk by now. You are my world; I want you to know what this mind contains: endless lines of love for your heart. 

If you would take them. If you would take my words of love, I’d kiss them straight into your mouth but instead, I write. I write so that my heart does not explode from this longing. I write so that someday, perhaps you and I may read these words of entrancement together. And so now we’re alone, just me and the world: just me and you.

I am like a little fluttering bird in your presence, and when I return to my nest, they will all laugh and say things. They say that I am too innocent; they laugh at my nervous laugh when you say something to try and make me laugh. They know your intentions, and though I deny it and claim to them, hopelessly – that the only smiles we share and eyes we connect and metaphorical dances we engage in – are all friendly. Yet I see in your eyes that you desire nothing more than to explore rubies and emeralds of me that you have described in your words.

And yet, I want it too. I want you to run yourself wild and feel myself blush as I hear your fervent exasperated lines of love as much as I want to tell you that I feel that you have won the tug-of-war over my heart. And I have long given up pushing against you; I have blissfully allowed you to yank the rope to your side, although you do not know it. I find myself wishing that you’d just pick up the phone. I desperately wish you’d just answer your heart’s call and let it speak to me the way it wants to. But you never give your heart the phone; though it asks if it may speak to me, you keep all the words for your charismatic and charming self. If only you knew how much your heart entrances me, pulling me into a dance that you are the master of until I dictate the movement only for a second until you take control again. 

Oftentimes, people say that the beauty of their special one cannot be defined by any word in the dictionary. This is not like that. Your beauty inside and out can be expressed through all loving words that I search for to compliment you further and further. For your beauty is timid and yet flaming; innocent and yet so wise. Your words rival even my own: not even you realize the eloquence and intelligence inside everything that comes out of your lips. Your lips – hiding that sly smile and the wise words that are so beyond your years. But not like me. I am a rock weathered endlessly by time, but you are a flower that just sprouted: dynamic and beautiful; fresh and sweet.

And now I see you walking closer to me – because you do that now. No longer do I have to initiate every conversation and hope to hear the honey in your voice. It still dazzles me that I have come so far: from falling down the stairs of sanity when I first saw her – into now getting to bathe in her laughter so constantly. Her voice rings in my ears: the voice of an angel singing and telling me just how close I am to tasting that voice. And now she is truly close; her bright eyes and smile that brings up her cheeks so beautifully. I could revel in this forever, but she’s about to speak and so allow me to shut off everything else to fall in love with that sweet, innocent, wise, voice.

“Hey,” I say nervously. He says something back – I didn’t pick it up, though, for I can see he’s looking into me right now. Into my eyes, but I know that he is examining my soul. How refreshing it is to know that he looks at me and into me; appreciating my beauty in an infinity of ways that I never seem to see myself. 

“So what do you think?” he asks patiently, as though he truly wants to hear what I think about whatever he just said. I’m sure it was engaging and beautiful, and I can’t bear to tell him that I wasn’t listening. I’m too scared to tell him that I was looking into him as he looks into me.

“I’ve actually never thought about that.”

I understand. She wasn’t paying attention to me. It’s alright, though. There was I time that I would dwell upon a moment such as this; I’d write an entire saga about her neglecting my simple question of how my hair looks today. But now, I don’t care. I know she’ll be laughing soon; I’ll manage to make a fool of myself while letting her know it was all part of the plan – which it definitely was. And when she does laugh, I’ll barely able to contain my own laughter – the laughter of relief that she found my words worthwhile. And now I’ve said just that – although I don’t care what it is, because she’s laughing now, and all my sorrows have dissipated as her angelic laughter fills my ears. 

I’m laughing now because he just impersonated one of my teachers almost perfectly. He can do that – turn himself into anything he wants to be, and yet he chooses to be himself when it truly matters, which is utterly beautiful.

She is utterly beautiful. It’s an injustice to compare her to anyone; for no other’s cheeks will rise so confidently when she smiles, and no other’s eye colour shall contradict their own shape – but that’s what she is: a contradiction. She should not exist so blissfully and innocently, and yet she does with such intelligence and wisdom.

I see the two lovers talking, and it annoys me because I’ve been telling him to go for her already – but the guy is just too scared. Not going to lie, he is pretty ugly, and she’s definitely gorgeous, but I get the feeling she wants some of him – at least some, if not all.

Maybe I’d like to get involved in his story; I’ve been reading them on his blog for quite a while, and he’s supposed to finish the series soon. Let’s end it off the right way: with her in his arms.

I see him walking down the hall now: a great friend; one of the only who I have told the truth about to whom these letters are addressed.  I pretend I don’t see him and continue talking to the angel; just regular stuff now – the fillers in our conversations that vary in interesting topics ranging from our favourite songs to things like –

“Shoot your shot,” he says, loud enough for her to hear, before promptly walking away. Now I’m red, and she’s laughing uncomfortably and so am I. I take this moment to appreciate her beauty once more, although I realize that perhaps there are no metaphors left, so I just look into her eyes with my signature intensity. I am uneased, and she is too: I can tell from the way she looks around and down, anywhere but at me.

Until she does look at me, straight in the eyes; almost matching my intensity. 

He looks scared – he’s never scared. Now that I notice it, he doesn’t look scared at all, I somehow just know he is. I’ll say something; I can’t bear to see him like this.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.” Well, now I’ve gone and messed it up. That was quite rude, actually, but I know he won’t mind. He never does. I think I could insult him to his face and he would just “drink in the honey of my voice” as he says it on his blog.

She caught me staring. Quick! Think of something. 

“Oh, I just got a bit, you know – just confused and a bit -“

“Entranced?”

“How’d you know that that was exactly what I was – wait a second. You’ve been reading my blog, haven’t you?”

“Well your writing’s very good, and whichever girl you’re talking about is very lucky.” I’m desperate at this point. Just do something already!

And now I reflect upon myself. A few months ago, I was basking in her warmth; never thinking I could ever say a word to her. And here I am now, holding her undivided attention. And her beautiful eyes are focussed into mine, and yet I’m not sweating profusely. I’ve learned to love her and still maintain my sanity. So now it’s time to do the insane:

“Sickle-shaped eyes,” I say thoughtfully. She looks a bit alarmed, but I know I see something in her eyes; some glint of longing. “Smile for me, will you? And don’t stop for a bit, no matter what.” 

I give him my signature smile; I can feel my cheekbones rising and reddening because I can feel his eyes on my face; exploring every inch of it and drinking in my eyes of contradiction – those eyes now squinting and curving in the genuineness of my smile. He reaches his hand out and my pulse quickens. I had been warned before that the prying hands of men will always corrupt and not caress, but I could care less, for I know that his hands are gentle and delicate – they could never hurt me in any way.

I brush my thumbs just barely along her eyelids as though they are delicate – which I know they are. I cannot hurt her now, for I know that nothing of mine could ever hurt anything of hers: eyes, lips, heart. Her eyes are closed now, but she doesn’t tell me to stop, so I don’t. I move my hands away from her eyes now, and they flutter open. I think she knows what I will say next.

I’m sure I know what he’ll say next.

“Sickle-shaped.”

 

❤️💙

 

And thus begins our dance;

the true dance of romance.

 

He says he is weathered,

She is innocent and young

But I could take him in forever;

And yet I can taste her tongue.

 

This is the dance of true contradiction;

every moment another fantasy

and yet no longer fiction,

for so long have I pined

to sample her lips;

to feel his heart against mine,

something that shall remind

us that we are now dancing,

in the spotlight of our own design:

the spotlight that only we shall be seen under,

the spotlight that only we may dim,

though I shall never stifle this light,

this beacon: a savior from the night.

 

Beginning from an infatuation;

impossible odds I could not climb,

and yet anything is possible

for you forgot that love was not a crime.

And now with our hearts in sync,

allow us the pleasure to sink

into this fantastic world of love. 

 

And thus begins our dance:

the true dance of romance.

Your rubies

and your sapphires

Now combine to form that precious stone never seen,

never to be taken from the sanctuary of our hearts.

We twirl on and on

just like his enjambing lines of love;

just like her endless bounty of beauty.

 

And this is truly the dance;

the dance for those in a romance.

A never-ending view

of this future ahead.

A dream come true,

with you, I shall always tread.

 

For I have not been entranced for romance,

I have been entranced for you

No, entranced

by you.

No,

Not quite right

 

I have been entranced

with you

 

Alright, back to black text. And thus concludes the journey of our adolescent protagonist and his eventual paramour. You might be wondering: what happens next? Who is this protagonist, and who is the one with the sickle-shaped eyes?

Well, how about we leave him? I’m sure he’ll be liking quite a bit of privacy to have his dance with his special one, so I request that we allow him to do that.

Thank you all.  This piece could not have been written if there were a single person who did not make me feel welcome in this class. All of you have made me realize that I should be confident with my writing, and that is exactly what I’ve done here. Thank you, all, from the bottom of my heart to the top of my medulla oblongata.

With this piece, I drifted away from the flowery language because I wanted there to be more plot with this one. Our protagonist is no longer just in hopeless admiration; no, he does not need these metaphors to describe his paramour because now they have developed a strong connection. She herself is the only way to appreciate her beauty and excellence.

But the question is, now what? Well, I do have a few projects in the works, so stay tuned for those. And I’d like to make a statement for all: don’t allow him or her to pass you by. If the time is right, and the person is right, you gotta make things work. You can’t hide anything from yourself: I learned that I couldn’t keep this writing within me, and I am confident everyone will learn that at some point they need to let their true emotions come out. Either that or just write a five-part romance series on it.

Thank you very deeply, once again, and I will see you all soon.

 

Sincerely,

 

Zaid.