What happened to the girl who can fight the urge to cry?
What happened to the girl who can remain still as a stone even if the people around her are shivering with silent sobs and sadness?
What happened to the girl who can manipulate her mind and emotions to stimulate nothing that will push her to feel something?
What happened to her?
Just what happened to her?
Now, she finds herself crying over lame things that are shallow enough to be thought of. She felt repulsed by what she had done to herself, felt repulsed and disgusted by the sensitivity she had recently developed for allowing herself to feel even the lightest feeling there is.
What made her change so easily?
What made her realize that it's okay to cry after all?
She felt like she's hanging on the edge of the cliff with the most unbelievable thick stream of salt-water cruising down her cheeks. She felt ashamed of herself that she actually broke down. Nothing significant happened to her, nothing tragic either and this confused her to bits, trying to remember what took place inside her mind before the tears flowed out from her brown orbs. She's shaking, mentally, heart heavy and breaths uneven. She needs a plan.
The world is no longer safe for her yet she suddenly felt that crying is addicting. She wants to cry long enough that it will lull her to sleep tonight but then she found it completely nonsensical. She must not cry, ever again. She must not cry, if that is utterly possible.
Stone walls.
Red bricks.
Heavy boulders.
Thick wood.
Decidedly, she started to act passive, eyes fixed and batting. With full determination she started to work and built several layers of defense around her heart. She blocked everything there is. Nothing can perforate whatever it is that she's trying to do right now. Nobody can stop her from the decision she have irrevocably made. Nothing. No one.
As world turned halfway to greet the moon's full potential, she went inside the cage and bolted the strong iron doors lock. Out from a small hole she inserted her hand. It was greeted by a harsh cold wind.She opened her hands, palm flat and facing up the dark sky, she blew the key that could only open the cage that she will permanently live in.
The key flew up into nowhere, traveled through thousands of miles into unknown lands. It landed somewhere. Somewhere for someone.
Lurking and sulking, she waited. She sat, cold and dim, heartless, lifeless.
She's waiting.
Waiting.
For someone.
Waiting.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Just Because...
One plain fact and truth hit me like a slap on my right cheek all of a sudden, although I would very much like to offer my left cheek as well but I don't think that it is no longer necessary. It wasn't really like a light bulb moment but it's brightness is like the same amount of light emitted by the fluorescent bulb above my head: I can never really write perfectly about love- yes, love- because love and I aren't in good terms for maybe a little longer than three years.
I have been in love, of course, since I myself is a human being and like everyone else around me, I'm capable of thinking, reasoning, defending myself, laughing, crying, and of course- feeling. But that was a long time ago, considering the fact the time runs fast, that I was actually in love with someone of my opposite sex and given that it was only brief, I daresay, and full of grief, it was still love. I was never good at handling matters that are related to love because I tend to get overrun by my emotions. What scares me right now is the idea and the "what if" feeling that I will never be in good terms with love. If this is to happen, oh by god, I hope not, I would be very sad and frustrated with myself. Tragic, really.
It would be a backlash for me, calling myself a writer of the inner sort, for lacking the ability to utter and write words and testimonies about love that were only generated from poems, pictures, songs, books, movies, and stories of the people I know of around me. What defeats my purpose as a writer, although not that good, is that I cannot dutifully finish writing about love, even with visible passion, with pleasantness or an upbeat motivation on such course of topic without being vague, redundant, and gloomy.
Right now I can feel that perplexity is creeping over me while I am pursuing my head to think and write with my trembling left hand and not to mention the tightness of my chest due to constant and heavy smoking of Marlboro. Anyway, with perplexity at hand, I am sure of the fact that I currently am not in love but just adjusting myself to like someone that I know a small detail about who happens to have the same interests as I do and as much as I can swallow, the vain proceedings of my feelings happen to be just some sort of admiration for him with the barring and borrowed line from a move- just because he likes the same bizzaro crap I do doesn't mean he's my soulmate.
Admiration, infatuation, and love are three different things, although they tend to blend and par as one in the center- an invisible sort of electric energy with crazy colors and neon lights that enables a human being to feel, do, and say silly things. They differ in levels as in comparison to Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I have to openly admit that I would very much like to actually finish one good and sensible piece of literature about love, all it's chains and knots, while being in love with someone, for all I have written about are woeful laments about angst, dark clouds, bitter and spiteful experiences, perceptions, and insights. The soft curls and sharp corners of my calligraphy would present an appropriate proof for all of it.
Just because I'm not good in writing about love doesn't mean that I can never will succeed in doing so. At least I know that I'm trying and maybe if I do try again, then the whole point of my piece would go in a different direction, in a different manner, and hopeful insight. Maybe I should try again, sometime soon, and remember the span of time wherein I was in love but then that would mean that I have to travel back in time and remove the white and dusty sheets covering my forgotten emotions that I wasn't able to understand before and unlock the treasure boxes containing the files of the decisions that I made with the ripeness of my mind from long ago.
No, I am not that old. I'm not even in the halfway of my life yet and I guess that is one of the reasons that I cannot write about love. Maybe love is simple and I am the one trying to confuse myself thinking that it is impossible to dice and slice like how the wrong knight with the wrong fate and heart tried to remove the Excalibur from the rock. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe I will have to give it my shot although I know for a fact that I will struggle in this project, wishfully thinking about when will love come to me and shake my hands so that we could be friends again and start over like it's New Year's day. I know it's utterly confusing and it would entail a person who knows how and what he feels to easily write about love with the exactness of words and sentences to make a lovely accolade to love.
Just because love is tricky, love is blind, love is a game, love is mysterious, love is deadly, and just because it's basis varies from one person to another, from one relationship to another, from one situation foundation to other doesn't mean that I will never fall in love again.
*char! :D
I have been in love, of course, since I myself is a human being and like everyone else around me, I'm capable of thinking, reasoning, defending myself, laughing, crying, and of course- feeling. But that was a long time ago, considering the fact the time runs fast, that I was actually in love with someone of my opposite sex and given that it was only brief, I daresay, and full of grief, it was still love. I was never good at handling matters that are related to love because I tend to get overrun by my emotions. What scares me right now is the idea and the "what if" feeling that I will never be in good terms with love. If this is to happen, oh by god, I hope not, I would be very sad and frustrated with myself. Tragic, really.
It would be a backlash for me, calling myself a writer of the inner sort, for lacking the ability to utter and write words and testimonies about love that were only generated from poems, pictures, songs, books, movies, and stories of the people I know of around me. What defeats my purpose as a writer, although not that good, is that I cannot dutifully finish writing about love, even with visible passion, with pleasantness or an upbeat motivation on such course of topic without being vague, redundant, and gloomy.
Right now I can feel that perplexity is creeping over me while I am pursuing my head to think and write with my trembling left hand and not to mention the tightness of my chest due to constant and heavy smoking of Marlboro. Anyway, with perplexity at hand, I am sure of the fact that I currently am not in love but just adjusting myself to like someone that I know a small detail about who happens to have the same interests as I do and as much as I can swallow, the vain proceedings of my feelings happen to be just some sort of admiration for him with the barring and borrowed line from a move- just because he likes the same bizzaro crap I do doesn't mean he's my soulmate.
Admiration, infatuation, and love are three different things, although they tend to blend and par as one in the center- an invisible sort of electric energy with crazy colors and neon lights that enables a human being to feel, do, and say silly things. They differ in levels as in comparison to Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I have to openly admit that I would very much like to actually finish one good and sensible piece of literature about love, all it's chains and knots, while being in love with someone, for all I have written about are woeful laments about angst, dark clouds, bitter and spiteful experiences, perceptions, and insights. The soft curls and sharp corners of my calligraphy would present an appropriate proof for all of it.
Just because I'm not good in writing about love doesn't mean that I can never will succeed in doing so. At least I know that I'm trying and maybe if I do try again, then the whole point of my piece would go in a different direction, in a different manner, and hopeful insight. Maybe I should try again, sometime soon, and remember the span of time wherein I was in love but then that would mean that I have to travel back in time and remove the white and dusty sheets covering my forgotten emotions that I wasn't able to understand before and unlock the treasure boxes containing the files of the decisions that I made with the ripeness of my mind from long ago.
No, I am not that old. I'm not even in the halfway of my life yet and I guess that is one of the reasons that I cannot write about love. Maybe love is simple and I am the one trying to confuse myself thinking that it is impossible to dice and slice like how the wrong knight with the wrong fate and heart tried to remove the Excalibur from the rock. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe I will have to give it my shot although I know for a fact that I will struggle in this project, wishfully thinking about when will love come to me and shake my hands so that we could be friends again and start over like it's New Year's day. I know it's utterly confusing and it would entail a person who knows how and what he feels to easily write about love with the exactness of words and sentences to make a lovely accolade to love.
Just because love is tricky, love is blind, love is a game, love is mysterious, love is deadly, and just because it's basis varies from one person to another, from one relationship to another, from one situation foundation to other doesn't mean that I will never fall in love again.
*char! :D
Monday, September 12, 2011
Unleashing The Freak
Cassandra.
She looked at the starless sky above her, sad brown eyes wandered slowly at the large mantle covering the wonderful things that the naked eye holds no capacity to see more than what's available for it so see. She allowed herself to relax and drummed her long delicate fingers on the concrete flat floor supporting her weight and resting beneath her as it breathes together with the rolling of car wheels and people walking, running, and jumping. She shivered as the wind passed by, making some strands of her long brown hair dance lightly before dropping back to her shoulder in a new placement and position.
Judging from the look of her face, one can conclude that she is at peace with everything there is. One can say that there is no amount of sadness residing inside her body. It's a big shame for her because what lies beneath her is the mad flickering of thoughts and unknown emotions waiting for her to be deciphered, comprehended, and accepted.
As the dark clouds glide by, she felt her heart gain more weight while doing its job to keep her alive as it pumps the very red fluid that is responsible for her biological existence. She made herself think that she is the very core of her own biased understanding about the world and its revolution around the dark universe that is the abode of innumerable magnificent wonders that are yet to be discovered.
As age traces down her body, Cassandra delights and resents the obvious and hidden changes that are taking place around and inside of her while at the same time she discovers and experience both the shameful and humiliating activities of a human being.
As the sky works to make itself look dark with the passing of time, she sighed to herself, unable to organize the sequence of her thoughts while summoning them ignorantly. She kept confusing the past with the present and so she stood up, ran her fingers through her hair and went inside her bedroom, feeling the cold floor beneath her naked feet. She found her bed and collapsed in it while sobbing quietly with her eyes open wide and gaze fixed on the ceiling above her. Her mind started to make a short film for her, of what she had hope would happen, of what she hoped herself to be. Cassandra felt the cold and sharp pangs of loneliness biting her. It slowly ripped and damaged the skin on her chest, tore her flesh, and made their way to her heart causing its beating to falter.
The only visible light of sound she can hear is her slow and heavy breathing. As the little things go, so did her tears. They came out bold like gallant and shimmering pearls of perplexity and naivety. She savored the moment of crying, remembering the feeling when she was about to do so. Her chest would usually tighten and the amount of blood that her heart could pump would be enough to fill 6 empty Coca-Cola bottles. Her jaw would then ache as if she's teething her Wisdom Tooth while trying to resent and consume the unknown and pleasurable feeling of different kinds of amusing emotions present at the moment.
Thick emotions veiled around her body like a new skin growing and she can feel herself choke down into the obscurity of vast deepness and stillness. For a moment she wished herself dead right now and she shifted the course of her mind to the silly idea of dying. She flicked off the movie and pictured herself lying still on the ground, her chest ceasing the activity of rising and falling.
Then a new wave of thoughts washed away the dirt inside her mind and the big ball of fire stood up above the sky. That was the end of the fall and the freak was unleashed out from her chest, passing through her eyes, rolling down her cheeks with clarity and transparency. That was the main purpose of crying, of breaking down, of crumbling and shaking.
She was happy when things were lighter, when things where brighter. She was happy once and it's not hard to be happy again.
She looked at the starless sky above her, sad brown eyes wandered slowly at the large mantle covering the wonderful things that the naked eye holds no capacity to see more than what's available for it so see. She allowed herself to relax and drummed her long delicate fingers on the concrete flat floor supporting her weight and resting beneath her as it breathes together with the rolling of car wheels and people walking, running, and jumping. She shivered as the wind passed by, making some strands of her long brown hair dance lightly before dropping back to her shoulder in a new placement and position.
Judging from the look of her face, one can conclude that she is at peace with everything there is. One can say that there is no amount of sadness residing inside her body. It's a big shame for her because what lies beneath her is the mad flickering of thoughts and unknown emotions waiting for her to be deciphered, comprehended, and accepted.
As the dark clouds glide by, she felt her heart gain more weight while doing its job to keep her alive as it pumps the very red fluid that is responsible for her biological existence. She made herself think that she is the very core of her own biased understanding about the world and its revolution around the dark universe that is the abode of innumerable magnificent wonders that are yet to be discovered.
As age traces down her body, Cassandra delights and resents the obvious and hidden changes that are taking place around and inside of her while at the same time she discovers and experience both the shameful and humiliating activities of a human being.
As the sky works to make itself look dark with the passing of time, she sighed to herself, unable to organize the sequence of her thoughts while summoning them ignorantly. She kept confusing the past with the present and so she stood up, ran her fingers through her hair and went inside her bedroom, feeling the cold floor beneath her naked feet. She found her bed and collapsed in it while sobbing quietly with her eyes open wide and gaze fixed on the ceiling above her. Her mind started to make a short film for her, of what she had hope would happen, of what she hoped herself to be. Cassandra felt the cold and sharp pangs of loneliness biting her. It slowly ripped and damaged the skin on her chest, tore her flesh, and made their way to her heart causing its beating to falter.
The only visible light of sound she can hear is her slow and heavy breathing. As the little things go, so did her tears. They came out bold like gallant and shimmering pearls of perplexity and naivety. She savored the moment of crying, remembering the feeling when she was about to do so. Her chest would usually tighten and the amount of blood that her heart could pump would be enough to fill 6 empty Coca-Cola bottles. Her jaw would then ache as if she's teething her Wisdom Tooth while trying to resent and consume the unknown and pleasurable feeling of different kinds of amusing emotions present at the moment.
Thick emotions veiled around her body like a new skin growing and she can feel herself choke down into the obscurity of vast deepness and stillness. For a moment she wished herself dead right now and she shifted the course of her mind to the silly idea of dying. She flicked off the movie and pictured herself lying still on the ground, her chest ceasing the activity of rising and falling.
Then a new wave of thoughts washed away the dirt inside her mind and the big ball of fire stood up above the sky. That was the end of the fall and the freak was unleashed out from her chest, passing through her eyes, rolling down her cheeks with clarity and transparency. That was the main purpose of crying, of breaking down, of crumbling and shaking.
She was happy when things were lighter, when things where brighter. She was happy once and it's not hard to be happy again.
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