Photo from coolhandluke's Flickr account

That’s what happens when you open your heart to someone, when you’re left on the ground unconscious, awaking alone, with the pain you knew would come. When you choke for the words you cannot speak. When you thought you were permanently broken, when you’d close your eyes and pretend that you weren’t the person you were, the person who kept forcing until it all took her.

You just end up pushing everyone away, everyone who doesn’t seem to fit what you deem ideal for yourself. You do this unconsciously, with the tiniest hope of finding someone who would make you happy the right way; who wouldn’t break your heart. It’d be great to find someone who would have to constantly deal with who you are: the utterly complex and fragile little dreamer.

Every attempt of loving someone after that simply results to failure. Even the slightest heartache is traumatizing. You then build a wall for yourself and peek through, letting the faintest beams of light shine through, still hopeful. When you have feelings, or when those feelings want to grow on their own, you punish yourself. So you tell yourself that it’s best to not feel. Not at all.

You continue living happily; content, without desiring the kind of love everyone else dreams about and endlessly searches for. And you wonder whether or not that’s alright.

Rain

From my Tumblr

The hands of the clock ticked away as she laid on her bed, hearing the endless patter of rain on her roof. It came without warning; hasty like the wind sweeping that once dull night. She looked out her small, glass window and watched the water racing down the walls of her home. Aggressive drops with bullet-like swiftness filled the midnight sky, as she gazed for almost an hour.

And then it stopped. The night grew silent, like all sound was subdued, desperately gasping for air. She stared into the dimly lit lamp by her gate and her heart beat faster. Sweat dripped down her forehead, and her night gown stained remnants of her own anxiety and fear. The rain poured again and she could see vague splashes on the road lined up by seemingly empty houses.

She glanced at the bed beside hers, and the innocent child sleeping so peacefully was gone. The outline of the soft curls on his head and his small body curled up, his face holding features so delicate and fragile completely vanished, as if the wind blew him away with no verdict. What lay was a dark, shapeless shadow casted on the wrinkled sheets. The echo of the rain rang in her ears and filled her head. At that moment, she knew he would never return.

Trying to keep still, she closed her eyes and let the unconscious take hold of her. The winds grew stale, and she knew she was not alone. She was soon drifting off to sleep, unable to let the tranquility of the night keep her mind at ease.

As she entered another dimension, the rain once more, poured vigorously.

Getting through

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I find myself thinking about you quite often, when I know I am not in the position to. From where I am, I watch, enchanted and speechless, wondering if we’d ever meet. That unreasonable ache continues to throb each and every day. I have no control over it, yet my will power seems to let this certain emotion grow on its own. I long for something I can’t utter, something I fear, yet I continue to bask in thoughts of you, this knowingly requited feeling slowly killing me with every fleeting moment.

It baffles me, how my cheeks flush, how my palms sweat and how I stutter when we speak… How we glance at each other, with tacit feelings lingering in the air as it chokes us for a verdict so unexplainable, so forbidden. It sickens me when I feel the need to see you and just know you’re there, even if mere words are barely exchanged, for fear of aggravating what is quite fragile, quite dangerous.

What I feel for you, I do not know. We never will because we never can and we never should. We are divided into two different worlds, separated by fate’s cruelty.

The very thought strains me, and the everyday struggle is quite a burden, but even if I can’t get to you, even if the endings of such circumstances would remain unreachable, I sit in this corner, tender, wondering what will never be.

As much as it kills me, although I see you, what will always remain extant would be my longing to meet you at the other side.

(Non-fictional, based on a true but impersonal story)

That tiny crack

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On the top floor of an old warehouse, under all the glimmer of the stars and bodacious gleam of city lights, I aimlessly wonder what is beyond.

I watch my life pass by and every second is a remembrance of what has been. I have no traces of my father growing up. Mother would always keep him hidden, like a rich memory kept away. She’d always seem so distant whenever I’d ask about him. I continue to wonder if he’s the man smoking by the pavement, or the man eating a sandwich by the fountain, or the man walking his dog every day before dawn.

I consider myself a wallflower, unnoticed, unseen, unheard of. Being shoved and hit would be a daily routine for me as I’d walk down the hallways of my otherwise peculiar school. I never had any real friends. I don’t think I ever talked to anyone about anything. I just wrote them all down. I’d pretend they were being read, though.

One time, during one of our school dances, a boy talked to me. He had very bright eyes that seemed to have a life of their own. I couldn’t help staring. He made me laugh and cry at the same time, and I didn’t even know that was possible. We would see each other every day, talking about different things and going to different places. I never thought I could feel that way about anyone.

One day, I was down by the pier, at our favorite spot. The sunset was beautiful, but I wished he was there so he could hold my hand and wait until the sky was dark. It was one of our favorite things to do. I waited for hours and hours. Weeks passed by. He left town, his friend said. Didn’t you know?

My mother barged into my room to find me sobbing on the floor. “I told you not to trust him,” she said. “I told you not to trust anyone.” I tried looking into her tired eyes and I didn’t know who she was and what else she would say. Several coughs emerged as I could smell the rotten smoke coming out of her mouth. I continued crying until I dozed off on the cold floor. I stopped believing in anything ever since.

I step on the ledge, look below and watch cars viciously pass by. People seemingly, nonchalantly are taking strolls down the sidewalk. I thought of things I would say to people who would want to ask about my life, and I realized that there were none. There was nothing to say, no one to talk to, and no one who would understand.

The cool wind tries to choke me and catch my breath. I slip and the horizon disappears.

Dedication post

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His pieces are never understood on the surface, or sometimes never understood at all. There's always something behind his thoughts so effortlessly written. This distinct complexity plucks a nerve, leaving me quite puzzled. How can I feel for something I can't even fully understand?

He knows the right mixture of fantasy and everyday life. He also has this gift of knowing how to tear my heart out and knowing which areas to aggravate, releasing emotions that I wasn't even aware of.

I consider an author to be exceptionally good if he can make me feel deeply, if he can translate ordinary phenomena into something much more than that, if he can change perspectives and of course, write about them beautifully. Murakami's a genius. Everything he writes is always so surreal, and I always get transported into a chaotic universe of some sort, where its hues are far beyond what my vast, imaginative mind can already handle.

One place in the world

A photo recently posted on my Tumblr

If there would be one particular country to go to before I die, it would be South Africa.

I just think that the place is astoundingly unusual. There's so much to discover. I want to swim in their beaches, because I wonder what it feels like to be on the other side of the sea. I want to see the contrast and extreme distinction between modernization and wild life. I want to meet natives and wonder how their life is like; how they live and what their beliefs are. I want to be aware of their rich culture; their thoughts and perspectives. I want to have bonfires and camp out in the middle of nowhere. I want to walk on deserts, really come into contact with nature and see wild life, especially exotic species that cannot be found anywhere else. I want to see beautiful horizons and marvel at the play of colors that take up such significant room in the skies.

I don't even know what else there is to see, but I want to see everything in that country. I will go to South Africa someday.

We meet again

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What lies among the unknown is so terribly cunning. She walks with caution, still with an amount of recklessness; the remains of her youth, the pieces that still exist. Where she walks to is not of definite point, but so strong is the unknown, finding satisfaction with vulnerability; walking souls with utter transparency.

What has she become after the darkness that crept up from the corners of her self-made sanctuary? Battles have yet to begin, and reality is seeping beneath the cracks of her imperfect world. She fights them off and lays on the floor; the cold and hard ground touching her face. In that moment, she couldn’t help wondering where the sadness went. She couldn’t help expecting the circulation of unwanted thoughts and it taking over, drowning her in energy so strong, so powerful, and so inescapable.

But there she was, with merely a tear shed. There she was, getting up off the floor, pulling the curtains and taking a peak. She was letting sunshine in. It was dancing with the light bouncing off the room, the light she hardly knew. Specks of dust were visible, and she stared in wonder.

Before she knew it, she was outside, breathing. She stretched out her arms far and wide, closing her eyes as the sun blinded her with freedom. Her finger trips were brushing off the freshly-cut grass. The wind cupped her face and the sunshine was tickling her skin, as if welcoming her into a world she was once lost in; a world she failed to remember. She was a stranger, someone barely known in the gates of this essence. And there she was, facing it again.

There she was, alone and alive.

That first time

He’d sit right in front of me as our rose-colored chairs were lined up facing the blackboard that was filled with drawings and letters written in various colors. The inscriptions didn’t make sense to me at that moment. I’d hit his head repeatedly, in a blind and impulsive effort to catch his attention. I’d stare and silently marvel at how his glossy hair bounced; in sync with his every movement.

He’d turn around and scream at me. He had a small face, one I wanted to cover entirely with my tiny, innocent hands. His eyes were enchanting; a light brown color emerging from such round objects placed below his humble forehead. His skin was tan, yet smooth and seemingly soft. I’d chase him outside by the playground where I’d show off at the monkey bars; my upper body strength was quite impressive for such a small frame.

“HEY!” he’d exclaim, each time I bullied him so. He’d turn around with his crunched up nose and either run away, avoid me, or stop himself from hitting me back. “Stop it!” He also had a lisp that seemed strange to me. It seemed charming to me. Everything about him was.

I wanted to sit next to him. I wanted to share crayons with him, or maybe even brush his hand a little when we’d pick materials from the straw baskets scattered across the room. I wanted him to notice my drawings on the board when I was assigned for the artwork of the day. I wanted him to listen to me as I recited poems, acted out Goldilocks and sang in front of everyone. I wanted him to congratulate me when I wore all those medals at graduation. Being inconspicuous was something that just didn’t come naturally to me.

I was a little girl then, barely 5 years old. Twelve years later, I could only remember so little. Having a childhood crush seemed so surreal to me, yet it’s a memory I just had to chuckle at and embrace with either humiliation or just plain amusement. It could be both.

His name was Kevin.

In different worlds

Photo by Fritz Dalida

She was on her bed, staring at the bland ceiling that greatly differs from the clutter in her home. She closes her eyes and inhales for a split second, imagining herself in a place where the wind was cool, the heat was ticklish, the sun was satiated, and the smell was salty. Everything was bright, cheerful, and wonderful. She dreams to be back to the place where she forgot everything that hurt and everything that had to deal with reality.

"I hate feeling sorry for myself, feeling so sad.” She chokes on her words, hugs on to her worn out and shapeless pillow, and tries to stop another tear from falling.

She keeps remembering the sound of the waves that crept up to the shore; its inconsistency mysterious and alluring. She remembers the texture of the rocks under her feet buried in the sand as she faces the horizon, the intensity and play of lights in the sky with the sound of laughter blasting through her ears.

 The shadows of her companions; their presence triggered both peace and adrenaline that still keep her wishing for longer days off a coast where not much roam. Her eyes would usually meet another’s, and her instinct made her face the other direction. For a split second, she thought it was just a look of chance. It was just them in their haven, under the sky that seemed to have endlessly kept them close, untouched.

And here she was, alone again with her own troublesome thoughts. “I just need to know that it still exists."

She positioned her head towards her window, facing the thick and cracked glass. The moon resembled something familiar and hopeful.

“I felt something from you,” she sputtered. “Even if it seemed like it was nothing, I still hoped it was real.” The vulnerable soul imagines him there, his silhouette; she makes out his face, the face of a man that occupied all she could ever lose control of, holding her in his arms and stroking her hair as the tears suddenly kept falling.

“I want to open my heart to you,” she utters, “even if I know I can’t, because I know I’m not what you want, and I never will be.”

The barren room slowly fills with salt water she tastes so knowingly. Washed away are all that is futile. She leaves herself weightless, as the waves bring her to another land of solace. The image of his thoughtful face makes her heart burst. She closes her eyes and drifts away.

Sonnet #8: To no recur

Shrill screams emerge from a fragile body

What burden of headaches and strident cries

Unable to stop, no inch to safety

Heart beats faster, with not a chance to die

Nerves shooting from one end to the other

Inside of me where veins throb and eyes burn

My body shakes, wishing it was over

I am helpless for breath, with sleep to yearn

Choking for air, verdict, and words to goad

Drowning out voices of people around

Let the violence and terror unfold

Those cuts and blood shed, too far to be sound

With just one to ingest, making me stop

I cling on to bed sheets, still as a rock

Slither

Photo from my Tumblr

It slowly creeps up like a ruthless virus waiting to eat the very core of your being. It silently awaits in a quiet, vacant, and dimly lit room, waiting to pounce on its victim, helpless, and oblivious. How it pushes you to the very edge and breaks your bones. It triggers your insides, leaving you numb, raging, and desperate for purging the very burning desires of your wretched judgment.

And when you give in to that temptation, you hold the world in your hands. You have the power. The excitement erupts; the warm brush of his fingertips against your delicate skin, the stroke of his hand, the softness of his lips, and the way he holds and caresses you. The abrupt movement takes you by delightful surprise and brings you to heated ecstasy, in all forms irrefutable, mind-blowing and raw, though despicably evil.

It is in the undeniable sensation that you let yourself go.

Sonnet #7: Cape

Worn out, broken benches sit here and lie

History kept in a place near the sea

Those feelings as blue as the summer sky

Heat non-existent, as cold as can be

Currents, ocean waves crashing sandy shores

Wash away horizons of memories

Tears emit, down towards the ocean floor

Recall the night of damned catastrophe

Black clouds hover on memories so dark

Silence, last breath, last touch, last words spoken

Hearts beat faster, reaching for sounds so far

Hushed and fatal pace, damned and forgotten

Dusk settles with the brokenness that stays

Lights grow dim in memories of the awake

Authentic.

In a world full of artists sharing and channeling their masterpieces through technology, a virtual catalyst, I find great importance in handwritten letters and raw journal entries, along with ink blots, marks and scratches.

The energy of my thoughts and expressions are given more depth as they flow through my veins, ignite my muscles and trigger my hands to take hold of a pen and simply write. Write until my hand hurts; until the strain is felt and is treated numbly.

The curves of the letters or characters created, the smell of the ink and the embossed words on a thin piece of paper is what inspires me, knowing that I have created a work of art; one that embodies me and the different worlds that I place myself in. I take pride and utter happiness in the fact that I have created something raw and beautiful.

A day for her

From my Tumblr

They say a mother's job is the hardest one there is.

My mother has been with me through the ups and downs in my life and the troubled times I'm still bound to go through. Many times, I've failed to understand her. I've seen her as the enemy who can never seem to sympathize with me and my problems. Many times, I've taken advantage of her and her ways of showing how she would help me out and shape me into a better person. Many times, I have disappointed and hurt her.

But throughout my hardships, my stubborn ways, my troubled and crazy thoughts, my constant and sometimes unnecessary hunger and search for what lies ahead on that dangerous road, my little flaws and my little quirks, no one has ever supported me as much as my mother.

I suppose I never appreciated it. I suppose I never looked past the strong person who always puts us first, who has a different way of showing affection. I suppose it took me so long to understand her, but when I did, I became even more thankful for being blessed with a woman like her; someone to guide and strengthen such a person like me.

She is the one who has always been patient with me, who'd sacrifice so much for her family, who'd crack a joke or two and laugh like a maniac, who'd offer a day of shopping for therapeutic purposes, who'd remind us how good we have it, who'd never fail to be there, no matter what.

When I describe a person like her, I can never seem to give her justice. I love her in so many ways; ways I don't think she's even aware of.

She is a beautiful woman, full of love and compassion. It isn't and will never be perfect with us, but we manage and love anyway. Having her for a mother will always be something worth treasuring and again, being extremely thankful for.

Letter #6: Captured

This place is dark, love. I haven't seen anything more frightening in my life. The smoke released from their constant tobacco sessions suffocates me. The only source of light is the oil lamp in the far corner of this room they keep me locked in. The light seems so far. I can't reach for it even if I tried. I overheard them talking. They say it's been days, but I feel like I've been here for thousands of lifetimes.

Let me tell you how they've been making me live here.

They make me lay my head on rocks. I use an old, damp cloth as a blanket, one that barely covers my arms. It's cold, very cold. They throw a few pieces of bread through the small hole on this certain wall of the cave. I rely on a small cup of sewage water to quench my thirst. I don't know why I'm here.

The only clothing that keeps me warm is the one I've worn from the moment they've captured me; now it is dirty and torn, barely covering my bruised arms and legs.

Please help me escape. Please help me find warmth again. I haven't been able to sleep well, and I haven't been able to stay up either, for fear that they might come in again. Please find me; take me away.