Archive for June, 2011

Misfit in distraught: Wallows in Nostalgia

Listen to: Personal – Stars

Echoes of shadows that once occupied this land have united in a haunting matter. Each chanting a rhyme of its own, those ghosts have become the best of me. I try to fill chasms with whatever passing thought in my mind, yet I fail miserably.

I seek it, them, us, them; I through them – My most joyful years, my most painful memory, when shall you departure and set me free? I lost more than I can gain. I admit, I destruct and distance those near. But no, those ghosts are evocative in such lingering matter. I blame fate, not I. I blame distance, not I. I blame all, even I.

Dearest of Diaries,

If not yesterday, then it must be today. Today has come, but today is a mere reflection of yesterday’s failures – Perhaps tomorrow, then. And if tomorrow is a duplicate of today, could it be the day after that, or the day after that, or even the week after that, perhaps, a month after that, or maybe, a year after that.

I woke up this morning longing warmth. Maybe it was the cold air filling my bed sheets that penetrated my beats. I could not distinguish that odd sentiment I within me, it felt so awkwardly familiar; I hoped to the demons it was not one of those days.

I walked down the hallways and my feet paced to the speed of surroundings almost stopping me – entirely – the reoccurrence of echoes has wearied my senses out. I sat on the edge of the world, overlooking trees and wondering how lonesome they feel standing up tall without a companion or a lover. Who hears them wallow at night, I wonder.

I took the elevator; I chose to defy the slow motion nature of this damned day. I stopped it halfway through and took the stares instead. I saw a stranger’s stomach acid all on the floor and suddenly my stomach let out an acid of its own to mix with that stranger’s barf and for once – belong.

Yes, yes, pathetic, ironic, idiotic, dramatic, annoyingly dramatic.

I changed my outfits today as often as I remembered to breathe in order to stay living. Perhaps, living is half as good as being alive. Or maybe it is a curse for those damned.

My dearest of diaries and most of agonies,

Shall I tear you a part once your numbered pages are done? What shall I do then, my worries and aches do not have an expiry date, and it seems that the more ache I feel, the more the void widens allowing room for even more failures and departures.

My hopes are that of any misfit; non-extant. I have given up on a country to belong to, a lover to go home to; a success to live up to, or even a simple thought to relate to. I have become my greatest enemy, standing in my own self’s way.

Love: When a Huntress becomes hunted.

Listen to: Einaudi: The Crane Dance

On a red sheet bed she lies with the lights turned on. Her cover no longer keeps her warm, nor does her pillow comfort her ever so sore neck. She tried to change her sheets, cover, and pillow. Perhaps, even change her bed, but no – nothing seems to work right anymore.

As her chest heaves for air, her lungs refuse to share the breath of freshness they get and suffocate her instead. What is it now that bothers her, she only wonders. For love has come and gone unwelcomed in its stay and celebrated with its departure countless times. What do they say about love, forbidden at best, forgotten at worst, somehow, is it quite the opposite with her.

No, this post is not about love or the taste of its illicitness. No, it is not about culture and how it lures its believers into disbelieving in the purest of emotions due to differences only considered as a barricade for those who seek an excuse not to love. But what is love to begin with. What is that feeling we all feel, what is that touch we all lust, what is that kiss we all desire, what is that hug we all long for, what, what, and what.

Somewhere between the heartbeat and the other, her heart skips a note. Somewhere between the footstep and the other, her feet travel to a world only lovers enjoy. Somewhere between the thought and the other, the neurons in her brain defect with emotion. Somewhere over the valley of forlornness she no longer wants an assured stay, rather, freedom to choose.

Sadness does not live in her like many others, for she has been living in a kingdom of confusion and misery for as long as her denying heart remembers. No – she is not the case of many other wondering souls amongst this earth. She has somewhat of discomfort with staying in one place for far too long. She is a nomad in emotions and finds no true campaign but loneliness, for it has been true to her more than any other.

A migrant from the land of lovers is who she really is. Though, never was she a devoted lover but an observer of devotion and true love. How could they; those lovers, stay true to themselves and each other for a time period that lasts for eternity?

She is no lover and knows no devotion to chains of commitment. An explorer is all she ever was, really. The only love she carries within her is to explore the mystery in others, and somewhere between being let in and wanting to exit, she feels their pain and wishes she never went in to begin with, but never does she regret – not even once – walking in.

As she twirls across her white walls, she sheds yet another loving soul off her pure untouched heart, only this time wonders, how long till she becomes the victim of her own hunt and instead of being a huntress for true love, becomes the hunted for obscene vengeance.

Not a liar, no. She never lies with her words, but she masks them well enough not to be exposed. Had anyone ever asked the right questions or dared to play against her distraction, they would see a world no one has ever seen without wanting so desperately to hold on to. Guilt is for the sinful, not her. Tears are for the remorseful, not her.

Alas, they were all roses in a jungle full of poison.