Happy Birthday, N.

What have the years give you, dear? Two before a quarter century, and I see you grow up seizing days after days. You grew stronger, and stubborn more. You have accomplished so much more than what I have in my own time. Proud and still starving for more.

I am sorry for not being able to write you exactly at your birthday. My energy has been, quite simply, siphoned by works. In your sleeping hour I tried to write last sentences, but the night was late and sleepy, and tranquil yet, because you were there, and I couldn't bring myself to write. Watching you fell asleep silently, veiled by the red wine sky, was more beautiful deed than all.

I'm sorry that I don't understand (yet) about your hunger; that in satiating your passions you're willing to sacrifice everything else. Past few weeks have we spent arguing, debating, being passive-aggressive toward each other, and I still don't understand. We are a ship and it was just a rough sea. And I am - or we are - still learning how to sail and tame the torrential rains and surging waves that may come.

I was never mad because you put me in any arbitrary number lower than what you'd give for your work. But I was mad that you'd even give up yourself - especially your health - to your job. It pained me to see you slaved by your job, because in you I see my own enslavement. I was weary, but not because I demand more of your priority. I was weary seeing you work really hard, almost too hard, almost as if that your very existence is tied to what you give to the altar of corporate gods. Waking up checking emails on your phone, eating lunch with your laptop, having dinner with your working papers, and the cycle repeats itself. Almost a ritual. You dash forward, running to be successful, ignoring your family, ignoring me, even ignoring yourself in the process. But then again, you are a bristlecone pine that can only thrive in harsh winters and hard soils. I will support you, and be proud of you.

And there's so many to remember, easily exceeds 23 things about you. Ramblings, discussions at the table, every words, every hugs, every little fights, every thoughts, every quirks, every accomplishments and disappointments. There's so much memories about you, becoming a path for me to return home. You don't need my writing to tell you how many wonders you've done in your life. In my life. You are a grace I dare not ask for. You are a miracle I dare not pray for.

You once asked me of how will forever be. Forever is too strong of a word. An impossibility. So now let me love you. Let me love you even when I hate you, even when you hate me, even when the smog of this city has taken away our radiance. Because love is the forever becoming the temporal. 

Finally, happy birthday, N. May the wisdom guide you through the dark years and the light years.

Happy birthday, N. And may we grow old together.