The Ground

The ground was shaky, and you couldn't tell how long the solidness would stay as you walk on its twisted, crooked, uneven path. Sometimes it lasted for several days at its best, and it'd trick you into thinking that it might suffice your little jogs, but as soon as you started running, the surface would vibrate and crumble, down, down, down, until the depth of mud below catches your weight. Your head would still be in the surface, providing just enough air to breathe, but it too, never lasted long. Once you were under, where no light managed to penetrate, nothing could submerge you back up, no amount of kicking would do, and you'd just go deeper, down, down, down, until what once suffocates you become the new normal, and the tight cocoon provides you this faux comfort, taking you further away from the world. Time works funny underwater, it passes slowly, and soon enough you were left behind by the ever moving world above. But it felt enough, and just when you started to think that this could be the start of your forever, the ground shook again, and the pool threw you out like last night's dinner, consumed and wasted and unevenly chewed, in chunks surprising to be alive. The world would look at you with question marks plastered on their faces, full of judgements, and what slipped out of their mouths would be the cliché 'you're not the only one suffering', which makes you wonder, 'such cruel place to live, how do you people cope?' You were left with no choice but to try and catch up, legs heavy and lids half shut, you crawled on your arms and knees, dragging yourself inches by inches to the limitless runway, which finish line has not yet to be seen. Hours turn to days and you finally manage to get on your feet once more, heels in pain against the sharp pebbles. One. Two. Three. Four steps. But hear me out, the ground is fucking shaky, and you couldn't tell how long the solidness would stay as you walk on its twisted, crooked, uneven path.

Oh, to live, waiting for a day to die.

A Dead Star

Hey 🪐

It has been five years since the last time I saw you within my orbit, you were in one of your lowest, we sort of joked about the Earthlings kicking you out from the planet list because they just mistaken you as a giant moon who's too far from the sun you can no longer reflect its light, because it felt dark. But for me back then, you were glowing, an illuminance so beautiful mankind might have to list you as a sun instead. You shrugged it off, of course, and you used your giant ring as a shield. I regretted not telling you that more often, because I was afraid it has something to do with me, and the fact that we only talked in my nights and your dawns — maybe I'm the moon who eclipsed the sun from you, who knows?

I know now, though. And it hit me hard. Because you're shining now, brighter than ever, standing tall and so proud that someone has managed to land on your surface and make a permanent stay. And I should be happy for you, celebrate the flag which pole has now plucked between your pores. Instead, I mourn. Because I failed to do just that, because somewhere between those pillow talks, I think I somehow made you think that my visit would be an invasion of your space instead. And just like that, the engine of my rocket died before it could even launch. 

I kept on revisiting the memories, trying to pin-point where I got it wrong, and which turn that caused you to stir away from me. Because for me it felt right — the firework explosions, the calmness that followed, the gentle whispers that spread the fire embers, warming the nights. I still sought for the exact feelings, you know? Every other planet I passed, I waited, for them to give me something that is close to how you made me feel. One managed to pull me in with their gravity, but the landscape isn't as pretty, and there are too many oceans that I ended up staying in one of their small islands with no one in contact for miles, hidden away from the world. I feel eclipsed. Dark. Cold. Too far from the sun.

Did you feel this way toward me too? That's why you shut the doors so tight that my voice could not get through? Was it that obvious for you that I was the reason for the lasting darkness? Is this how I am supposed to tell myself that, "Yeah, I better move on now, it's time to leave"?

People said that with every broken heart, you got one more stranger to live in this universe carrying your secrets. I have so many heart-breaking cases, but I don't think anyone carries more of my secrets than you do. Perhaps that's why it hurts more? Because, what? You know my favorite colors, and my favorite drinks, and how my alarms don't ring in times I should wake up that you had to chime in?

I want to know your story, you once said. I want to know what you felt when you wrote these beautiful pieces. Well, I'm telling you now, I feel lonely as I write this, and hurtful because times tick for some people and I'm left in this island, hidden and frozen. Because everyone finds their source of warmth but me. I feel you, now a blinking dot in my sky, who'd not fall again, erasing the opportunity for me to make yet another wish.

But I'll pray, the way you made me do in one of those quarters of nights we spent together, for you to shine through, and for maybe, one day, the same kind of light to hit me too, so I could be one of the many dots in your sky, so you'd get to remember me, as the second star to left, a Neverland you once got stuck in but managed to escape. 

The Withdrawal

Another night fell, and entailing it, another dawn broke down, then came with it, another cup was filled, of coffee freshly brewed. The vivid black was stirred, and stirred, though bitter it stayed. The more bitter, the stronger the effect, they said, but the only thing that stuck with the bitterness was its scent, failing to claim its ability to heal the aftermath of the weeks long insomnia. The holding only grew weaker the further the steps were taken to revisit the memory that came with the first sip — of how it all started with the forbidden stolen glances.

Of the pair, which were planets of their own, their forest thick and green, the truest embodiment of spring, frozen in time, putting a weight of shame to the emeralds bejeweled in any king's crown, incomparable to its beauty, dimming slightly only when the lids squinted closed before a curve formed on the lips — crafting that one smile, that seemingly had more capacity to warm the lasting winter than any cup of coffee could, keeping everything steady. The temperature dropped now with the absence of the curve being the center of the gravity to hold it, low, low, low, even as Spring arrived. 

One step forward, three steps back — a solo waltz with no one but the worst of luck. While the mind walked in and out of the nostalgia, the body was kept locked inside the tiny shell still, too ashame from its nakedness to present itself for a public view as a broken product of fate's wrong-doing, with an opened wound the size of a fist becoming both the hole in the chest and lump in the throat. But with the passing moments, the walls moved closer, eating the space out until there was no tile left to dance, tightening the suffocation and trapping the soul within, away from anyone's grip, and it wanted out.

By God, it wanted out.

Entitled: Untitled

19:29.

There are times when the heavy bass of the music seemed weirdly synchronized with everything in sight, and while it is in a way a satisfactory, she'd prefer it when her surrounding is instead, a jumbled mess of mismatched noises and movements, like jazz, where every instrument plays different melodies, each being the main act of their own gigs, some with their own crowds, some with none at all.

Some distant thuds of wooden soles were racing with the clicks of heels that closely followed, overlapping with a group's chatter, buzzing like a colony of thirsty bees only several meters away. Just a few degrees to the other side was a whole new view, a book of short stories which paragraphs aren't written in orders, is what. The pages flipped wildly fast as she made her way through the crowds. Her senses recorded everything; the noises, the colors, the movements, the smells, the touches, the tastes, the feelings, a little bit of everything that was eventually enough to form a tornado, herself being the eye of the very calamity, surrounding her — or so she thought, while it was in fact, wrapped tightly, enveloped inside her chest where her heart refused to let go.

A puff of gray smoke coming from her mouth acted as a smooth transition between the scenes, but still couldn't hide the obvious contrary — once out, she was in another universe, quieter, way quieter, far too quiet to her liking. The cool night breeze blew a strain of her hairs, like a puppet master it made them sway in a slow waltz across her face, gently touching the cheeks the way they want to but she let not. A long sip of her cig, and then she walked, what looked like the last leaves summer had left were falling behind her, and the grinding branches were her sole soundtrack, that, before the universe decided to throw a whole orchestra. With thunders came, the rain arrived, she took another long sip before it all ran out, but she walked no faster. The blinding light of a series of the upcoming vehicles from the other side of the street served as fickle spotlights — like everybody else that night, she was in her own show, a cameo in her own story.

[ https://youtu.be/99TGikqRJJw ]

Blue

I haven't write in awhile, and I think it's both good and bad. It's good, because finally at a point after a really long time, I feel enough. I feel like I got what I deserve and it's all, I prematurely think is enough.

I got the kind of love that I wanted; a love that doesn't make you feel that they completed you, that you did not lack of any single thing before you two met. that the simplicity is the new elegance, and you just need someone to share the same perspective, to enjoy it together, and you both want it to be a very, very long time.

I got the kind of career that I wanted; though I still stumble now and then, here and there, I got people who, though as tired as I am, are strong enough to get me back up again. people who are the most humble to trust such huge responsibility on these tiny fragile shoulders, knowing deep down I am capable enough. 

It's bad because it makes me settle down for the present time too comfortably. I don't wander far toward the future anymore, sometime letting go of the past too. I wanted to concentrate to what's happening today, and rest until I have to worry about tomorrow, until tomorrow becomes today, on repeat. But then I realized, that THAT, as much as the all the wandering and wondering, is a viscous cycle.

I have lived for 27 years long, and I haven't quite figure out how much portion of the past, present and future to hold onto to be able to feel okay, to feel enough, to feel complete without actually being complete. I haven't quite figure how to juggle these three in sync. I was either gripping too hard on the past I let it left its messy shape on my palms, holding onto the present for way too long that the other two started rolling away, misled in directions, or staring up to the future, not realizing it's gonna hit you on your face anytime soon, that it's closer than you think.

sometime, in between the earth and the sky I'd ask to Him in whispers, "are you waiting for me to be ready? will I ever be ready? is completeness and feeling enough actually nonexistent?"

I'm not sad nor I am happy, but let me tell you that it's the worst feeling ever. I'm tired, but I've slept for so long and it's still not enough. But what is enough again? I'm in between. Of everything. Of every time frame. Of every feeling. It's grey. Everything's grey. But it feels so, so, so blue.

Autumn

it's weird.

autumn supposed to remind you of all sad things. i mean, don't most break-ups in novels and movies take place during the fall? just look at the scene: the dead leaves finally gave up hanging onto the thin branches, before finally fell down helplessly in despair. even the sun declined the broken hearts' pleading to warm their days up, giving more reasons for them unfortunate souls to stay inside the dark corner in their bedrooms, their comfortable zone that is- just like how the grey clouds being the sun's. 

so it's weird, how the sound of his name echoes- out of all seasons there are- autumn in my mind.

i guess his pair of deep ocean eyes manage to project the season so differently. the leaves, though dead, appeared so alive through the reflection of his lenses, painted in sunset shades as they flooded the dull ash-brown ground underneath. they blended so beautifully with the grey sky that day, with damped pavement of sussex street below, where i stood, leaning toward the bottom end of the queen's statue, lips chapped from the cold autumn breeze but heart warm from the view.

If I Could Paint with Words

Better Together

i have done this millions of times, pouring my feelings onto a piece of paper, filled with sketches and scribbles, words stroke replaced with new ones just to get the rhythm going. it used to be easy, even the heartbreaks are way easier than this. but this, is an outburst of feelings, like the one you have on your firsts; first kiss, first i-love-you, first cup of shared hot chocolate; times a thousand, exploding together, all at once. it's too much happiness to fit in the caption of all the photographs we took, all the moving scenes of us, and of splashing rainbows he gives on each and every frame. my words are overdue. and this time, it's a good, good thing.

"i'll tell you one thing 

it's always better 

when we're together"

Untitled

for the first time after a real while

certainty means the exact opposite

and no matter how strong your grip is

the earth feels too lose under your feet

you thought when the quest is over

the world will finally put your mind at ease

but those mouths won't ever stop will they?

sucking hard on your confidence like leech

so you surrender with palms kissing the floor

to the one who owns the heart

and the feelings it both produces and consumes

so that if broken it must be from if a falling shall occur

the faith and patience would stay

though the bravery and determination

may not be much more

Nameless Noun

there should exist a word to describe the longing for something despite the fact that you have not lost it, a feeling for something so strong that even a sip of his love you took just seconds ago becomes something you're lacking of for now, like feeling homesick the moment he lets you go from the warmth of his arms, even with his scent still lingering on your t-shirt, like how your brain craves for the softness of his kind words when they kiss your ears the moment he shuts up, or how the gaps between your fingers feel too empty when he lets go of your hand just to scratch his nose. there should exist a word to help you explain the situation.

"i miss you so much."

"but i'm here."

"i know."