The Fox and the Prince

So we didn't talk that night, we didn't want to make things worse than they already were. But among those comfortable silences, I knew. That I've tamed you and I'm forever responsible for what I've tamed.

I regret nothing.

When...

When we have finally met,

I hope He'd give me that sudden longing,
like an irrational desire with bloods rushing,
Or my knees melting,
every time you're talking.

When we have finally met,
I hope He'd give you those funny feelings,
that make you remember,
The rapid beats in your chest, thinking,
"Oh dear, Lord, could this be her?"

When we have finally met,
I hope we could both be sure
That our desperate endeavors
Have finally come to an end, and ahead waiting, is our unpredictable future.

"But I haven't met you yet, and if I did, I'm not aware. I've been working on our future, crafting on my career. So when the day comes when I meet you, I could speak to your father. Communicate that I'm able to love and care for his daughter. Until then I can offer soulbeats and a letter. Painted inside my music, just wait 'till we see each other."

Gowe - Wait For You 

She's...

She has a pair of cautious eyes, been awake since day one,

And an aware mind, more prepared than what lays behind her ribs was once,

Where the bruises stay, and wounds bleed at times.

All to welcome the night: the crescent moon and the stars that shine.

"Is she crying?"

It’s not about the darkness that creeps, but more to the silence that follows,

Because in silence she’d remember things she’s been trying to swallow,

Not him, or those memories he’s in,

It is the unrequited longing, and the pain it brings.

"Or is it raining?"

She’d spent hours watching the ceiling, thinking,

Of the what-if-s, if-only-s, how-s, why-s, all the wondering,

She'd let the questions hits her like an auto-replay, pictures of him would come and run,

But her eyes stay dry, she breathes normally, almost numb.

"There are clouds in her eyes,"

But at times, in one of those silences that accompany the night,

She’d let her cautiousness fades and awareness sleeps,

With eyes closed, falling tears, and a bleeding wound that kills.

"It’s falling, falling..."

A post inspired by a song

Why?

...Why do we write fiction?
"To express ourselves,"
"Because we like the sound of our own voices,"
Why do I write?
"To explore new worlds,"
"To explore old ones,"
To be somewhere else,
"Maybe to make sense of ourselves?"
"To set ourselves free,"
To get free of ourselves.
"To show people what it's like inside our heads,"
"To make people laugh,"
"To get attention."
"To stop hearing the voices in our heads,"
To stop, to stop being anything or anywhere at all.
"To leave our mark,"
"To create something that will outlive us."
"Asexual reproduction."
"To share something true,"

Cath shook her head.
"Why do we write fiction?" Professor Piper asked.
Cath looked down at her notebook.
To disappear.

Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl, ch. 2, pg 23.

My personal muse.

Eleanor & Park

That night when she asked him about his former,
"Is she prettier? Did she treat you better?"
Her lips curved into a pout, and it burst out his laughter,
"Nothing before you counts, and I can't imagine an after."