Written by Jelou Galang

To my dearest sidekick,

Please make this easy for her. Today she used two of her fingers to brush off specks of week-old dust that habituated on her stashed calendar, and silently counted the days left for March—one, two, three. If the radio plays happy tunes then let’s think of it as a sign of optimism and picturesque promises—those that most people find only when two trains meet in a parallel means when the work day’s over. There are three days left for this month, and the sheer circumstance that she wanted to know this, may be a call for us—for the both of us—to continue trying to meet halfway. To keep doing what we do.

Come to think of it, we really can concur.

I really hope that we’re making this easy for her. Oh wait, scratch that—easier, perhaps. We can validate the hypothesis that there is no way we can ever decipher what goes on inside of her; what kind of waves crash in the fragments of her consciousness, and what the complete schedule of the lifeguard–who cuts episodes of losing balance and eventual drowning inside her head–is. Or if there really is a lifeguard at all.

We know a little of the path she takes every single time her pupils open at the sight of dirty white ceilings, aiming not to fall back and shut down again. We know a little of this story. But here’s something I am sure of: I catch her bones when they start to shake; you catch her heart when it starts to break. There is an explosion of fireworks that zoom through the spaces in the room when her eyes plunge through you; and the party of lights continues when she rests her head on me; soft, sweet, secured for the day. Dreams play. Here is a motion picture. With this, maybe we don’t even need her lifeguard, moreover to confirm the actuality of it.

She needs us. Perhaps we can already do all the saving.

If she plays her favorite playlist of tunes about galaxy-wide feelings and wanderlust written on old journals, then let’s wait for her to pick up the calendar—this time without dust—and believe that her recognition of the coming days reflects her hopefulness and of picturesque promises.

With this, let’s make a promise, too.

I promise to be soothing and at least, palliative. I promise to pacify her 3 AM uneasiness and provide her the feeling of being confined in a shelter; one that’s good enough to pull her away from giving in to the demons. I promise to maneuver her, instead, towards the show played by the moon and the stars and all the dialogues they can weave to make her smile so much, she won’t even bother crying.

To you, her camera: please promise that you’ll take full guard of her fragile disposition when I am not around. Remind her of perpetual lists of adventures. Let the aperture and shutter speed move according to her will. Go, create images. Go, let her dance along the beats that say here is your life; make the most of it. I hope she takes photos so sure like how I also hope she’ll soon be so sure of her place in this world.

You and me– let’s teach her what love feels like, shall we? Who says depression always has to claim triumph in someone’s lifetime?

This love aims to make everything feel bit by bit easier.

This love is worth pursuing.

Sincerely,

Your sidekick; her bed