If I could take a picture of my inner being, I would.

Look at her. Look at that blank expression painted across her feature. Look at those eyelids, look how they invariably cover her eyes. Even with her eyes trailing the ground, can you sense that rays of void penetrating through? A trace of something that once had been hers, but now have been taken away, she could never get rid of it, it's forever attached with her. A reminder of her past, that continues to trail her present, a never-ending ache that goes on to discolour her every second she's alive.

If only they knew...

How exquisitely she keeps a straight face while everything inside her collapses, an art of deception she was forced to master. How her feet taps the ground with such slow, serene steps while inside her it's a war. When, between steps, her sight would fall upon those faces, of familiarity and bliss which a twisted path had sent both of them to a dark place where their field of vision are blindfolded with misled perception, and now had made them a stranger to each other. How, as fast as a split second she cuts her eyes away and resume her steps, cogitating and half-hoping to feel any sort of pain to jolt through her hardened exterior, begging for coats of tear to strain down her face, and finally tasting the virulent void...but often her attempt came to a disappointing end.

A few trips to her mind and she finally got the answer. Why she is so numb to all those pain. Why she is incapable of feeling anything. Why it only hurt the first time. It's like experiencing a bruise. Touch it while it's new and it's going to hurt like hell. Repeat it continuously and you'll eventually grown to withstand the pain, and it's not going to hurt you anymore, no matter how many times you try to press against the bruise. That's how she is now. She had gone through it too many times to feel any kind of pain. it's sad, really.

If she could take a picture of her inner being, she would, as there is no other way she could portray what it's really like inside of her. She's unable to cry, no. She's too numb for that. Everything is falling apart, and this is her, surrendering.

Before you judge me for being heartless, remember this. Remember the time when you had any cuts or bruises across your skin. Remember how much it hurt the first time. Then remember when you tried to press against them over and over until you became numb of the pain, until the cuts or bruises didn't hurt as much as it did before. Lastly remember how you were unable to feel any pain or whatsoever from that moment on. Do you remember? Remember that  well 'cause that's exactly how I feel now. You've hurt me so many times, over and over that finally when it all ends, I don't even feel anything. A nice, observant friend of mine once asked why I wasn't crying when everyone was crying their eyes out. The answer is easy. I'm grown numb to the pain. I'm emotionless, heartless and I've got you to thanks for that.

Don't get attached.

I wonder sometimes how much I mean to you. Some days I'd be silent and wait for you to talk to me and some other days I'd restrain myself from talking to you to see if you'd search for me. Maybe i shouldn't have been doubtful. If I could be honest, I'd tell you how much it kills me to watch as things change knowing that I am no longer in that spot. There's someone else in my place now. I hate that I am so sensitive to changes, that even the slightest one could startle me with such an alarming sense and it is just so ridiculous. Sometimes I wonder if this is my fault. Though I feel like I am the forgotten one, I tried to act like it didn't bother me, but pretense was a thing I never had mastered, no matter how much I tried. I over-analyzed things, which sucks. A lot. Maybe I tried too hard to figure out just where I stood with you that I unconsciously created a distance between us. I never wanted this. I never wanted things to change. No matter how much I wish we could be like how we used to be, nothing is going to change the fact that we've drifted apart.

You of all people would know how it feels like to be treated like an option by the one you put first. No matter what your argument is, the way I see it, you scratched my name off your priority's list and replaced it with someone else's. You pushed me away. Then you complained about us drifting apart. As if the decision was mine to make. Well, it wasn't. I was only walking away because you pushed me. You. Pushed. Me. The only thing that bugs the fuck out of me that you easily let what we once had slipped away just 'cause you found someone else like I didn't even matter.

I now have to deal with you not putting me first anymore and though I detest it, I guess I just have to live with it, huh? I'm sorry I wasn't good enough for you to let me stay. I'm sorry that you had to replace me with someone else.

I realized now that I need to stop dwelling on things I've lost and start focusing on what I do have. I'm done chasing and holding on. Look where that got me. I'm just done. I don't need to feel like I have to fight for my place to be with my best friend. If I mattered to you, You wouldn't have gave me that option. I don't need to feel unappreciated by you. I'm tired of mopping around about this. Even though it hurts to see the one I used to do everything with, now doing it with someone else, I just have to pretend I'm okay and I'm going to keep lying to myself. Eventually, I would have to believe it.

I'm not going to forget about you. You matter to me. But I am going to stop showing you just how much, because it doesn't matter anymore. We've drifted apart. You're happier now. As for me, I'm going to go back to be the person I was before I met you; a lone wolf. At least no one's gonna hurt me when I'm alone.

-09.08.2012

Date a girl who reads.

Via Tumblr


Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

27. 04. 2012

When you see someone who you used to spend half your time with, spending time with someone else, how does that make you feel? My theory is that, if you're worth it, nothing can make you doubtful. You will never ache knowing you've been replaced. You will never allow yourself to be feeling like you're being cut out of the picture because the other party would never make you feel so, never will you have to cogitate am I not good enough, am I too hard to handle 'cause if you really do matter, they wouldn't make you feel like shit. But of course, nothing ever goes in our favour. Even if it does, it's invariably temporary. Things go wrong. People change. Eventually, you'll fade from the minds of those around you. Even the ones who you could never find it in you to loathe, will treat you like you're motherfucking worthless, and sometimes, they'd do it so effortlessly. That's when it shows just how much you really matter, how much you actually worth and most importantly, that's when you should put a limit to how far you could let them hurt you.

Chest Clearance

I lead the kind of life where I am discolored by force. Things that happened in the past annihilated me, all the bruises and scars grew around me, eventually becoming a cage, and that's where I've been residing. I still remember, though vaguely, the person I used to be. It's hilarious how a girl who used to love watching Hannah Montana, who used to doodle stars and hearts on her notebook, and when you look at her now, you just can't help but wonder what the hell happened. When I was a little kid, I genuinely believed everything I saw. I witnessed the love my parents had for each other and how they showed it everyday in every gesture. Every day of my childhood I held on to that, to that belief that good things as such will always stay. That one belief I let grew in my heart, building strength within me, making me believe that whatever happens, I will always be fine because I had a loving family to go home to. Or so I thought.

While I have grown toward that age where I started to have a new perspective on everything,  where as I grew older, my innocence started falling, and suddenly, the world seems foreign. Then you started to learn about things. And I learned that everything that contributed to my faith when I was little, was all build by bricks of lies. People change. Things go wrong. Turned out my parents, they're not as strong as I believed them to be. Turned out, their love worn out. All my life I've watched how they loved each other, and now all I see is hate in their eyes. You don't know how it feels, watching something you treasure fall apart. When you have been fed with that kind of bullshit, it changes you. Not little but a lot. Everything I believed in turned out to be not real. How can you not be crippled by that? How can you not be damaged? When your life was build on a lie, how could you not be destroyed? Every time I saw them screaming at each other's throats, throwing hurtful words like they meant nothing to each other, they began to appear as a stranger in my eyes. They are just so different from how I remembered them to be. And every time things fell apart, I would go running to the one and only person who could always manage to cease my sadness; my grandma. She was always there when I looked back. She was my knight of shining armour. 

One of the many things I regret is that I actually believed this too, was going to stay forever. I thought she was always going to be there for me, but of course, the universe is never in my favour. Even when it does, it's invariably temporary. She left, after a while, right when I needed her the most. That was when I lost it. I've experienced loss when I lost my parents and it was almost unbearable. Now the only person I could rely on has left my side, the one person that had been helping me to get through everything has gone. To experience loss twice within a short time is unimaginably crippling. You will never understand just how much suffering that holds unless you went there.

Since that, I can no longer find me. 'Me' has long gone. I began to be terrified of changes, very terrified. Changes were beginning to look like a disease to me, it violates my comfort. Now whenever things start to change, I start to scar even more. And people wonder why I am such a tragedy. I drew barriers around me, just to feel secure. it's funny 'cause I never really experience that anymore; security. I was developing into a person who recoils at the sight of love, very cagey, awfully mortified of being hurt, everything that screams damaged, you name it, I am it.

Even though words have been said, these words are not fully enough to describe just how much exactly the pain I've felt from all this. And it never will be. And if anyone fails to understand, it's expected. 

Some may say they do understand, but truth is, they never wholly do. Some of them even swore that they would never leave me alone, hurt me, you know, all those bullshit. But in the end, it's exactly what they're doing to me, things they vowed they would never do.  I am starting to believe maybe, no one's worth lowering my guards down. Maybe, I'm better off alone. Given my nature, I would understand if anyone wouldn't stand a day with me. So I let them leave. The ones that refuse to stay are not worth chasing for. Those few ones that I could never afford to push away, are beginning to walk away, and maybe it's okay. Maybe this is all right. Maybe I am not worth it.

Dear future boyfriend,

 The time may be ticking, 

 And when you look around you,

 Souls may be roaming around so, so lively,

Yet in my world; it had long stopped spinning.

But then again, it's no wonder for as lifeless a soul as mine.

Miserable At Best - Mayday Parade

"You're all that I hoped I'd find, in every single way. And everything I would give is everything you couldn't take. 'Cause nothing feels like home, you're a thousand miles away, And the hardest part of living is just taking breaths to stay. Because I know I'm good for something; I just haven't found it yet. But I need it."

No longer your muse.

Have you ever woke up to a dream, the kind that stole a portion of your heart away the minute your eyes fluttered open? The kind of dream which kept you to wonder, where did that portion go? A dream that consist of a face you vowed you will never forget? a long lost best friend, or one which you spend almost your entire childhood with? The one your heart just refuse to let go? The one that got away? 

The path I took to get here had led me away from that of yours. 6 years I've stopped being a character to your memories and I wonder along those years, have you ever took a day to miss me? Have your eyes ever fell on the empty chair that was supposed to be mine to sit and found yourself wishing I was still there? Have you, love? Have you ever missed me like I missed you?

When I think of you, the monsters in my mind vanish their lethal whispers, and my heart starts to fill itself with serenity and genuine happiness, which flows so tenderly, spilling through my body. It's always nostalgic. The yearn of being able to see you and be with you everyday sometimes forces desperation to tear my heart apart as realization comes to the door, telling me it's absurd and out of the question. Dreaming is all I could afford, it's the closest I will ever get to you. 

At the age of adolescence we met. We may be little, we may be so naive, but we were just kids who found love and liked the way it made us feel.  In a small town that we always referred to as if it was a kingdom, we drew memories I swore I will never fail to remember again and again, even after years and years of growing up. And look what I'm doing now? Let's see if I remember it well.

I used to hang out with your sister playing doctors and other stuffs kids do and it was always at your house. This one time, you fought with your sister because she didn't let you play with us and you really wanted to. And there's this one time when your dog took my slipper and you ran after him to get it back. Ah, my hero. I also remember when we played at the park till the sky was almost dark, which we never noticed because we were having fun, too much fun. The moment when you put your hands on mine while we gathered with our friends telling stories, the moment when you glared at your friend while him and I were sitting together, laughing while playing games. The moment when you said, "yes of course, love." with a cheeky smile when I asked you to draw me a train. I can't seem to forget your voice when you sing. I remember your birthday, your handwritings, the way your fingers wrapped around your pencil when you write, I remember everything about you. I don't know why when I could have been entirely forgotten by you. New memories form and the old ones begin to fade, I understand if that happens to you, though that never happens to me. I won't blame you for that for I am merely a stone. Not a diamond you would never have trouble remembering. 

Funny how this all started when we were 8. Funnier when I'm still stuck with the past eventhough it was 8 years ago. now, you're older and wiser. You'd  found new friends and in a place where all good things come from. Traces of innocence has escaped your feature, and now replaced with a glowing glory of a man. Experienced many things and learned many things, too. Look how far time had left us and how much changes it brought. And now here I am desperately wishing for you to never forget me.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
You make me happy, when the skies are grey.
You'll never know dear, how much I love you.
So please don't take, my sunshine away."

You sang this to me on the day I moved away. One of the many things I will never forget till the end of my time. I love you, and I will always do. I will love you when you found your true love, I will love you even when you have kids. Just remember to tell them about me, okay? And I will love you for as long as time and I'm not planning to stop. They say your childhood stays with you and never leaves. I guess I see the point in that. Never thought the crush I had for you when I was little could stay this long.

Even though I am now living with the doubt that you may not remember me as you used to, you may not remember the reason you loved me before, but I hope that wherever you are, you will always have a person to make you smile. I hope that you will always be happy and that monsters will never be able to reach to you. I hope on lonely nights and weary days, you will find it in you to be cheerful again. Please never stop wearing that smile. And I hope, when you look at me, you will remember all those things that I remember. Maybe, in another life, I will be your girl. But for now, have a damn good life, Dominic. You will probably never going to know this but I don't think I will ever stop having feelings for you, no matter how old I get. 

No one ever stays long enough. Eventually, bonds break, if not loosen and awkward silence takes over. It's a matter of when or who comes along. I've been replaced and I damnably despise it but replacement, I guess is necessary, apparently. 

Born to be assumed, never to be understood.

There are lot of different versions of "me", depending on who your sources are. But what only bothers me is that I never feel the need to give even a flying fuck to these distorted explanations and exagerated assumptions. People can have different views on who you are, but there exists a person who truly, genuinely understands every reasons behind everything you do, every emotions you feel and that person is yourself. Sometimes, I'm too tired to be polite, and they label me disrespectful. Some other time, I speak my mind and they call me gauche. The society is too grandiose to please, so I never bother to try. Some people are just not worth it, so why bother to care? The excitement of being a misfit is profoundly satisfactory.

Being hated for who I am for I am beyond their incapacious little minds ought to be heaven on earth. Now excuse me while I let those people continue to wonder.

If you were hoping I would at least write something happy this time, you should have known it is never my forte.

      She woke up at 6.05 and checked her phone. Nope. No messages. She retreated back to her sleep and woke up again at 8.50. She woke up to an empty feeling and it was Saturday morning. The story of her life. To avoid from weeping the morning away, she grabbed her novel from beside her bed, hoping it could be a distraction. To her luck, she’d stopped at the page where all the sad plots are taking place. Great. She resumed reading anyway, and continued on reading as she followed the story, every words reminding her of herself. She was surprised about how alike she was to the character of the novel. So much for not weeping the morning away, she thought, as tears dribbled down her cheeks. S
     There she was, sitting on her bed, typing on her laptop. the curtains still closed, not wanting the rays of sun to invade and destroy her dark surroundings. She figured it suited her mood at the moment; dark and empty. As thoughts swirled in her mind, she began to realise, sadly, that she had gotten very used to weary mornings. She was left then, with one thought that seemed to stay longer than the other; Why couldn’t she just be happy?

I always thought that my being so fucking insecure all the time was only a phase. That I would get over it in a matter of time. I thought wrong. Once again, I felt alone and lost in the presence of a crowd of friends. I am a misfit, always have been. I never really stand in any groups or categories, though I would let them influence me for a while, but I always go home to myself once I'm alone, when there's no one whose mind I could clone. It sounds so very intriguing, being different. But you will never appreciate normality until you've experienced how dreading being different felt like. But then again, what is normal anyway?

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life? ― Mary Oliver

I've been writing a story and I took time to search for the perfect poems to fit it, and sure enough, I found them. Just thought they would be worth sharing with. So here you go. Feel free to knock yourself out.

The Peace of Wild Things,

-Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Having a Coke with You,

-Frank O'Hara

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne

or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona

partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian

partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt

partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches

partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary

it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still

as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it

in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth

between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint

you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look

at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world

except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick

which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time

and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism

just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or

at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me

and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them

when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank

or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully

as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience

which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it.

The Swan,

-Mary Oliver

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?

Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -

An armful of white blossoms,

A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned

into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,

Biting the air with its black beak?

Did you hear it, fluting and whistling

A shrill dark music – like the rain pelting the trees – like a waterfall

Knifing down the black ledges?

And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -

A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet

Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?

And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?

And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?

And have you changed your life?




The Journey,
-Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.




What I Have Learned So Far,
-Mary Oliver

Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I
not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside,
looking into the shining world? Because, properly
attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion.
Can one be passionate about the just, the
ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit
to no labor in its cause? I don’t think so.

All summations have a beginning, all effect has a
story, all kindness begins with the sown seed.
Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of
light is the crossroads of — indolence, or action.

Be ignited, or be gone.

Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?
-Mary Oliver

Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches of other lives --
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey, hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning, feel like?

Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?

Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over the dark acorn of your heart!

No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!

Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?

Well, there is time left --
fields everywhere invite you into them.

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?

Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!

To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!

To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!

To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened

in the night

To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?

While the soul, after all, is only a window,

and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.

Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not,
     but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe

I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.

For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!

A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.

Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?

And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down
to think about it.

That was then, which hasn't ended yet.

Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.

I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.

Resume,

-Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp;

Guns aren’t lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

Why Are Your Poems So Dark?

-Linda Pastan

Isn’t the moon dark too,

most of the time?

And doesn’t the white page

seem unfinished

without the dark stain

of alphabets?

When God demanded light,

he didn’t banish darkness.

Instead he invented

ebony and crows

and that small mole

on your left cheekbone.

Or did you mean to ask

“Why are you sad so often?”

Ask the moon.

Ask what it has witnessed.