know me deeply or don't know me at all

There’s a gentle kick in my veins when people flinch from the truths I keep to myself. They look at me like I walk with too many secrets to unveil or am too mysterious for them to read. At first, I didn’t quite like it. Many times, I was misunderstood. But when I learned how to lock the attention on myself rather than investing it in them, life started to make sense. There’s a distinction between misreading someone and judging them, but there’s no difference in how it affects the person on the receiving end.

Over time, I grew up liking myself for not being too open. It’s not that I built these castle-like walls and only a brave soldier who dares to climb them would have the benefit of knowing me. It’s much easier, just like a line I draw on the sand to clear my boundaries, and if someone crossed it, we’d gradually have a good talk.

Only when they cross it.

Well, I lied on the second paragraph. There’s a part of me that likes my version of being a hidden book on a shelf full of interesting reads, but there’s also a part of me that hates it. I mean, why does it take me too long to actually start a conversation that turns into connection? Don’t get me wrong, love might be an understatement to describe what I feel for people in general. I cherish every encounter, every glimpse, every gesture, every effort, every smile—everything that people give to me.

I don’t like reading people; I just do it like breathing. Perhaps that’s the reason why I rarely engage in encounters I know wouldn’t last. I tend to assume that it will end and it will make me regret knowing them. At first, I felt cruel about it because I’m already deciding the kind of closure they’ll probably refuse to give. However, they make me hate it more. Why? Because they always prove to me that I was right all along.

I don’t want to know people like how employers scan their applicants’ resumes. I don’t want the basics; I go all in. I just don’t want to know your name; tell me whether you’re named after your parents or if there’s any inspiration behind it. I just don’t want to know where you live; tell me a memorable moment you had at home. I just don’t want to know your favorite song; tell me why it’s your favorite or if there’s a lyric that hasn’t left your mind the moment you heard it.

I always feel defeated when someone says that he likes to know me better, but I’m the better one in knowing him. I appreciate the initiative, but I hope you just don’t linger on the surface but rather, stay on a deeper level—like what I always do. And it probably speaks to a lot of people because everyone wants to be known. Everyone wants to be recognized, not just the loudest version of their soul but also the tranquil existence in their hearts.

I hope if someone wants to know me, he will want it profoundly. I hope if someone noticed me in the crowd, he would want to notice every fragment of mine. I hope my name doesn’t just ring a bell in his ears; he’ll know much farther that it’ll bring a smile to his lips. I hope the moment he wants to walk towards me won’t feel like a moment because he’ll be devoted to turning it into filmic memories. I hope the moment I run to him to let him know that I just finished reading a book, he’ll ask me to tell him about it.

Because a woman who yearns for a love worthy of salvation is the same woman who gives it back.

I will familiarize your shivers as if they belonged to my bones. My eyes will memorize the lines on your palms… so long that my heart will consider it a seamless continuation of mine. I will wander in your light. I will search for your voice if you feel you’re trapped at night. I will take you out from the void or be with you if you feel that you’ll burn if your skin can’t feel it. I will find you everywhere, even in anything, even if I need to hold my breath and look for you at the galaxies of your suffering.

I have vowed to the person I promised to become once my heartache for love was finally mended—and loving you halfway would be a disgrace to that sanctuary.

So please, know me deeply…

Or don’t know me at all.

I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Cumulus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section gathers writings on love in its many forms — from joy and tenderness to ache, heartbreak, and the spaces where we yearn.