Ironic Miracle

I've been receiving postcards from Chicago, postcards from Leeds, postcards from Brisbane; postcards from all the friends I'm not close with, and I have to read their regards word by word like I'm trying to figure out the secret codes behind these pictures of landmarks from places half way across the world. I've been biting my tongue in my sleep for the past few nights and I had to wake up to a mouthful of blood of my own, to yet another nightmare when I was not asleep. Intuitions like these make it hard for me to not believe in intuitions like knowing that there's really "The One" in our lives that we are telepathically connected to. Because this morning I was told that he's already found someone new now, and suddenly I have so much to say after months of not being able to put a single word on my personal journal. I've also been told that there would be a miracle today and I looked for it everywhere so hard the entire day just to discover there was nothing but a bad weather and that I didn't dare listening to music that might prove it all wrong for something I anticipated. There was a lump in my chest and I had to pretend that it was the lecture notes in my bag that weighed me down to my ankles which made me walk so slowly across the flashing green pedestrian light. I stuffed cookies into my healing mouth hoping it would grow an extra layer of fat around my heart so no one could see it wriggle like a dying caterpillar. But what's the difference when I'm writing things like these as if I'm trying to wear it on my sleeve? I flipped to the first page of my ivory journal book where I found a quote I had written, with my bold handwriting, "How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live." And there's only one item I've crossed out on my bucket list - Fall in love. Postcards from all the friends I'm not close with. I definitely love an irony. And isn't this what I've been doing the whole time? Loving ironies. Walking ironies. Writing articles hoping I could be understood but also trying to hide myself away. And perhaps this is the miracle. This moment could be it. Albert Einstein once said that we could live life as if nothing is a miracle. Or as though everything is a miracle. I remember one morning I woke up next to him when the first rays filtered through the horizontal blinds and the shadows landed along the contour of his face, and I couldn't help kissing the lines like how people long to touch the paintings hanging in the museums. But I'd pretend that I didn't know him ten years from now if we crossed paths on each side of the yellow lines on the ground while green lights were flashing and my heart pumping to its beats. Because I know my heavy ankles wouldn't be able to bring me to the other side before it turned red. I wouldn't race through it. I'd just pretend that I didn't know him. All this time I've been looking for a left sneaker. He's a left sneaker. And then I look at myself and I get it now, I get it. I'm also a left sneaker. Maybe that explains why we're so similar and yet so incompatible in every way. And maybe the cliches are right. Maybe there really are some things that we have to find before we find each other.