As the day drags on, I find myself looking forward to opening your worn cover, to place my pen upon your page as I begin filling you with my many musings. If only you knew the joy you bring to this foolish girl, the happiness she’s filled with as she scribbles away in you, as she speaks to you, her most trusted companion in this world. How silly she must look to you. I must admit; you are indeed precious to me; I no longer think of you as just a journal, no. In this short time we have spent together I think of you as a companion, possibly even my closest companion. For you see, oh confidant, I don’t have many companions; this foolish girl can fit them all on one hand. Do I perhaps have so few companions in this life because in another life, I had so many? I wonder, do past lives even exist? If they do what do you think I was? I hope I was something gentle, something pretty as to give happiness to others, like a flower. Flowers are certainly lovely, and they do in fact have many friends; like the honey bees that float to them each day, collecting their nectar while planting their soft kisses atop their petals as they fly away towards their hive; or perhaps a small caterpillar as it nibbles on the stalk in hopes of growing into a butterfly someday. I wonder. Oh confidant, oh dear weathered friend, I have something important to tell you besides these foolish thoughts, would you care to listen? I hope you do.
Today I seem to have stumbled upon a peculiar man, a strange man with hair as red as the sky when the sun sets in the horizon. The familiar shade of that bright color had me mesmerized, my eyes unable to part ways from that nostalgic sight.. Is he the red-haired boy who’s been haunting these foolish memories of mine? These memories of the joyous wonderment of childhood. Oh how I wish I could return, to return to our laughter, to the dreams we shared of a better tomorrow, to those nights we would spend beneath the stars on those warm summer nights. Alas, the man I met today is not he, for even though he was kind, his eyes concealed something, something he wasn’t showing me…who knows what it may be. We each have our secrets, our past that’s been scarred by the world we live in and the many people we meet, whether its for better or worse.
Even though his hair shares the identicle color as yours, that same red hue, I believe yours still shines the brightest, even if I only see it in these memories of mine that are unreliable. Indeed, yours shines like that of a hero, a hero who vowed to shine brighter than the flames of Ifrit, to have his name known throughout all of Eorzea, from the slums of Ul’dah to the forested villages of the Shroud. That was your dream was it not, oh red-haired boy…ah, boy doesn’t work anymore now does it? For now, you are most likely a man grown. I wonder, are you working towards your dream? Are you still kind? Or has the world changed you like the man I met today? These questions that I’m unable to answer will continue to run through my head like a Chocobo as it chases after its flock, so close to catching them, yet still so far. Gods curse this memory of mine, for it is as unreliable and foolish as I am. It teases me with bits of information that slowly seeps into my mind as honey would seep through a crack, slow…oh so very slow.
As another day comes to a close, my eyes darting up towards this night sky as they often do to partake in the various stars that twinkle and dance before them, I have to ask; are you looking up at the very same sky at this moment? Seeing the very same stars? Or do you see something brighter, something bigger than what these foolish eyes of mine see. I wonder. Are you still a dreamer?
I have still so many questions to ask, so many yet that are still making their way into my mind, but what I want to ask you is something more personal, something that’s rather embarrassing. For you see…oh crimson haired dreamer, I’m no good when it comes to these types of things my cheeks begin burning, my face becomes hot, and the beating in my chest increases with such an intensity that I feel as if it’s going to burst. It’s foolish I know, for I am 20 seasons old, old enough to be a mother, and yet I still giggle like that little girl who treated you like a prince. This question that I want to ask you, do you promise to answer it? To keep it a secret only between you and me? If you do, then I suppose this hesitant girl can go ahead and ask it.
Am I…
Am I still your flower perched atop a high ledge? Unreachable? Unobtainable? Do I still mean that much to you? A foolish girl from the slums with hair that was sheared by a blade, with mud covering her face, a foolish girl who would run barefoot through the alleyways as she chased after you.
Am I still the apple of your eye? A girl with mannerisms that would put even the most despicable to shame, a girl with a mouth as loud and as vulgar as a sailor? A girl who would hold your hand as you guided her home in the afternoon, that ruby colored hair of yours bouncing in her eyes.
Am I still your princess? The foolish girl you would protect from those kids who would tease her, even though you yourself would become the object of their teasing, the foolish girl whom you would kiss on the cheek each day, and each night, as you promised to save her from the hardships of the future.
Am I still yours?
Cydni Eloise Aizah
Cydni's Journal 