May.
Starless.
Cloudy.
She sat on a chair, embodied in a black dress, cross legged and hair down, with a burning cigarette between her two fingers. She brought it between her lips and inhaled deeply so the smoke burned from her throat towards her lungs. She held it in and exhaled so the blasted smoke scattered about, surrounding her. She is damned and she is aware of that fact yet she smokes with such contemptuous ignorance and profane probability that it makes her feel better.
Sadness took the vacant seat beside her, touched her hair and caressed her bare arm like a lustful biological being who burns with desire. She ignored him as another batch of smoke filled the air, suffocating all her thoughts and tying up the emotions that are trying to rush up her head.
"You're too late now," his dreary and bleak voice cracked in the cold air, "and you know that."
She sat still, unresponsive and mute, trying to consume every memory that are blazing alight right before her dreamy dark eyes. She grew sensitive to her lethargic soul, burning her gut out, and opened her lips to break out the words but her lips only trembled. The Phantom appeared in front of her, gazing idly with such amusement.
"Leave." was her flat response and it echoed in the dark. It made Sadness smirk like an elf. A blow of wind dropped by and she found herself alone once again.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
emanon
You walk past me, looking at my eyes,
What was the color?
You walk past me, so close you are,
Your name, your name
How do they call you?
When I'm alone I'd think of you.
Your name, your name
I'd like to know.
When I wake up, a speed of light.
Your face, your face
Appears in time.
I need to hear a sound from you,
Your voice, your voice
What is it like?
Oh, the sparks in my head!
Oh, the warmth of your gaze!
You're name, your name
When will I know you?
What was the color?
You walk past me, so close you are,
Your name, your name
How do they call you?
When I'm alone I'd think of you.
Your name, your name
I'd like to know.
When I wake up, a speed of light.
Your face, your face
Appears in time.
I need to hear a sound from you,
Your voice, your voice
What is it like?
Oh, the sparks in my head!
Oh, the warmth of your gaze!
You're name, your name
When will I know you?
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Tears
I love the moment when I can feel something in my eye. The sudden urge of freedom from a tiny drop of tear would awaken me and when it comes out of my eyes, it frees everyone, it's fellow tears as well as all that I have been feeling. I love how they moist away my angry and dull eyes, I love the way how it awakens me and when my boat is going to sink in, it would be the best experience that I would certainly miss.
The reason why I cried tonight pays no relevance to my life right now. Maybe someday it will make sense to me, once I am old with age, joy, and perhaps regret. But what happened tonight made me realize that I have been long denying something that I should sometimes think about. Or maybe I should completely forget about it and go to sleep and in the morning, I won't be able to remember what was happened. Life is strange, perhaps. Once you fall asleep and dream, you are transported to another world, a world you fear and a world you have been wanting to stay. You see unfamiliar and familiar faces. You meet the superficials and you get to be in a place buried by age and time. How strange life is, by the time you wake up, they're gone and after a few hours, you won't even remember them, you won't even remember the feeling of waking up in the morning as the dreams you had comes speeding up your thoughts. They just dissipate without any reason, leaving you confused and bothered.
As you fix yourself for a new day, you feel so happy. You go out with your friends, you laugh, you smile, you talk and you don't seem to notice what are happening to other people's lives. Maybe this is a reminder that we have our own lives to live but there will always be a time wherein we have to take notice. Is it because it makes us less selfish if we look around us and smile to a stranger or hand a coin or two to someone asking you for it? It could mean mostly anything.
And you were walking around on a bright day and met someone. Someone who's going to make you smile for the rest of your life. Someone who will make you cry and stand up at the same time. Someone whom you can share your feelings, your life with. Someone... and then a kiss. A promise. The memories. Someone you will love. Someone.. how strange. You don't even know his name and you look at where you are, staring into the passing cars with your head in the clouds.
It's just gone.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
A Call from the Elephants
How can one call herself as an artist when she herself is confused of her own being? Surrendering or thinking about getting fulfilled by art is not some mere vogue of stereotyping. That person is struggling, perhaps, wandering around the basis of her existence and trying to locate and chart her place where she belongs. Thinking too much is a habit of that artist, up to the extent of nauseating her own self with complex and absurd things that lead to nowhere. Feasibly, she should try to be friends with her own thoughts but where does the majestic "Gnothi Seauton" fall into?
Maybe that scuffling artist has her own varied way of understanding things, things that even shallow people can understand but on the other hand they have a way of seeing and absorbing her ideas in a different manner, different time, and different image. Then she sits alone, somewhere serene in the heart of the city, bounded by two different churches and crossed by the trees beside her, thinking about her own unbalanced life. She said to herself that life is not that simply confusing but she made it all to hard for her to succumb.
Somewhere in her life she met a girl like her. She can still remember the fresh pangs of irritation that was brought upon to her by the girl for she sees her own faults inside the girl's soul. How can she not recognize the same call that was once used against her just to bring her into what made herself be someone like she is now? Unpredictable and violent her heart may be but there is something beyond this girl, something that can surprise anyone who have spoken badly about her.
What makes sense inside her now may not make sense after she wakes up. What she feels now may subside due to the stirring of her soul that will take place once she is sleeping. Funny the way it is how she thinks about Love every time she's about to sleep, tossing and turning in her bed, wishing that wonderful things will happen to her heart, but yet she panics and there is consternation within her every time she thinks of love and all that it is. Her thoughts send spark and trickling pains of discomfort, choking her own thoughts back from where they came from with fear that she cannot experience the hospitality of love that she has long been wishing for since she was still innocent.
A call was all that she needed. A call from the Elephants who are waiting for the rain to pour.
Maybe that scuffling artist has her own varied way of understanding things, things that even shallow people can understand but on the other hand they have a way of seeing and absorbing her ideas in a different manner, different time, and different image. Then she sits alone, somewhere serene in the heart of the city, bounded by two different churches and crossed by the trees beside her, thinking about her own unbalanced life. She said to herself that life is not that simply confusing but she made it all to hard for her to succumb.
Somewhere in her life she met a girl like her. She can still remember the fresh pangs of irritation that was brought upon to her by the girl for she sees her own faults inside the girl's soul. How can she not recognize the same call that was once used against her just to bring her into what made herself be someone like she is now? Unpredictable and violent her heart may be but there is something beyond this girl, something that can surprise anyone who have spoken badly about her.
What makes sense inside her now may not make sense after she wakes up. What she feels now may subside due to the stirring of her soul that will take place once she is sleeping. Funny the way it is how she thinks about Love every time she's about to sleep, tossing and turning in her bed, wishing that wonderful things will happen to her heart, but yet she panics and there is consternation within her every time she thinks of love and all that it is. Her thoughts send spark and trickling pains of discomfort, choking her own thoughts back from where they came from with fear that she cannot experience the hospitality of love that she has long been wishing for since she was still innocent.
A call was all that she needed. A call from the Elephants who are waiting for the rain to pour.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Saawariya
Saawariya...
My beloved...
There is always so much to say but then words would always fade away. What lies beneath my surface is an unfathomable force that goes beyond my normal self. An act of deep enthusiasm over certain shallow issues that my head cannot comprehend. How is it that I act like a dumb person where in fact there's more to what I cannot actually understand?
...then you fade away. There were different signs that came in different colors and shapes. There were these signs that I posted out the ground under different concealers and I have given them the full authority to shape-shift. How is it possible that you knew them all one by one but then you denied what you have been feeling? How is it possible that you are aware of the reasons standing armed at the tip of your tongue as you face me with ire and disorientation? Your heart seems to bubble and my blood gushed out from where its source. After a minute, there were bruises and my bones were broken.
Seeing you was too much for me. What is the source of my being? I have a mind full of perplexity and turmoil that adds nothing to help me bring about the good that is hidden within me. The Harlequin wasn't dead at all. It was just inside me, lurking, waiting with deep fury and resentment to what I have been doing to myself for the past 4 years of my existence in this tiny spec of dust. Still I hold the very key that will take Her out of the hell hole that I hid from myself. There are risks and there are sacrifices. I wish not to speak on the grounds of amusing what could possibly happen.
Why don't you just figure it out, Saawariya?
My beloved...
There is always so much to say but then words would always fade away. What lies beneath my surface is an unfathomable force that goes beyond my normal self. An act of deep enthusiasm over certain shallow issues that my head cannot comprehend. How is it that I act like a dumb person where in fact there's more to what I cannot actually understand?
...then you fade away. There were different signs that came in different colors and shapes. There were these signs that I posted out the ground under different concealers and I have given them the full authority to shape-shift. How is it possible that you knew them all one by one but then you denied what you have been feeling? How is it possible that you are aware of the reasons standing armed at the tip of your tongue as you face me with ire and disorientation? Your heart seems to bubble and my blood gushed out from where its source. After a minute, there were bruises and my bones were broken.
Seeing you was too much for me. What is the source of my being? I have a mind full of perplexity and turmoil that adds nothing to help me bring about the good that is hidden within me. The Harlequin wasn't dead at all. It was just inside me, lurking, waiting with deep fury and resentment to what I have been doing to myself for the past 4 years of my existence in this tiny spec of dust. Still I hold the very key that will take Her out of the hell hole that I hid from myself. There are risks and there are sacrifices. I wish not to speak on the grounds of amusing what could possibly happen.
Why don't you just figure it out, Saawariya?
Priorities
What are my priorities? Are they really that important to me? How is it that I don't know how to make them feel that they are the most important people/things to me? I'm taking them for granted and that makes me less than a person that I am. What just happened to me is something that I have wanted but I'm afraid to say that it made me regret and feel bad about it. This is another clichéd issue as a matter of fact but then this is the first time that I have just yet encountered.
On the night of the rainy May 7 of 2011, I went out with my friend to have a few drinks and on that exact night, I just lost myself my "ardent" suitor.
It's not that I don't have feelings for him but it went out as if I took him for granted. He said I needed my friends and I don't need him because lately, I didn't feel like going out or being with him anymore. He was the price in exchange of having my high school friends back. So I beg to disagree that life, in some ways, is unfair.
And now, it just dawned on me and I feel so guilty and bad about it. I hope this soon will be over because I really feel sick thinking about this. Love is not always that easy especially when you're not prepared to make someone feel your love or you can't stand on your decision to award them as the person that you're willing to prioritize.
So, stop crying over spilled milk.
On the night of the rainy May 7 of 2011, I went out with my friend to have a few drinks and on that exact night, I just lost myself my "ardent" suitor.
It's not that I don't have feelings for him but it went out as if I took him for granted. He said I needed my friends and I don't need him because lately, I didn't feel like going out or being with him anymore. He was the price in exchange of having my high school friends back. So I beg to disagree that life, in some ways, is unfair.
And now, it just dawned on me and I feel so guilty and bad about it. I hope this soon will be over because I really feel sick thinking about this. Love is not always that easy especially when you're not prepared to make someone feel your love or you can't stand on your decision to award them as the person that you're willing to prioritize.
So, stop crying over spilled milk.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Nansensu
"You will always have a taste of what you have paid for... even if it's bitter."
A line from a song that I have improvised which I believe is true due to some "bitter" experiences that have trickled in my tongue. Oh how is it that the taste lasts for so long? How is it that you can remember how and what it feels like? Regret is not to be put in mind but your own responsible idea for buying what you've always been wanting for even though you are well aware of how it will turn out to be.
What am I rattling on about anyway? Expressionism is not always the theme for this matter. A little distortion could make it because I know, somehow, everything tastes differently at a different cost. I did not pay for sweetness in the form of money but I paid for it in the form tears. I bargained my own risk for an impulse which lasted only for a split second that I believe would taste good but then when I looked in the mirror, I saw a fine line of blood slowly coming out from the cut made by just a split second.
I may sound vague today and prolly leave everyone, including myself, in a state where you have that feeling that you've done this before yet you feel guilty all throughout your bitter and vain selfishness of what it is that you've paid the most that left you broke and desperate for a fresh new start. I hope I'm right.
"There's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you have paid for."
--STOP.
A line from a song that I have improvised which I believe is true due to some "bitter" experiences that have trickled in my tongue. Oh how is it that the taste lasts for so long? How is it that you can remember how and what it feels like? Regret is not to be put in mind but your own responsible idea for buying what you've always been wanting for even though you are well aware of how it will turn out to be.
What am I rattling on about anyway? Expressionism is not always the theme for this matter. A little distortion could make it because I know, somehow, everything tastes differently at a different cost. I did not pay for sweetness in the form of money but I paid for it in the form tears. I bargained my own risk for an impulse which lasted only for a split second that I believe would taste good but then when I looked in the mirror, I saw a fine line of blood slowly coming out from the cut made by just a split second.
I may sound vague today and prolly leave everyone, including myself, in a state where you have that feeling that you've done this before yet you feel guilty all throughout your bitter and vain selfishness of what it is that you've paid the most that left you broke and desperate for a fresh new start. I hope I'm right.
"There's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you have paid for."
--STOP.
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