replay

Silently, I find myself archiving all that you left behind. In simple notes and those words in those files, it is only then you are there. As the music plays my mind pulls out selectively all that has your name on it which is signed and enclosed with your invisible hands. I did put them away just long enough for the dust to settle, just enough for me to believe the reminders I put in place. I would test minutes and time again, and then I'll pack and sleep. But I already know this reality too well. Too familiar with the aftertaste. It is not what we have that makes the most sense, it is what we don't. I know you would say I am crazy, I already know the whole script of how the shoutings would be. I cannot keep you. Still. I smile to believe it. I will even lie to believe it. So I will play this one more time just to hear those imprints on lyrics, just to hear your ghost; speak to me. You didn't matter enough to hurt me, but you did. I will turn off the lights in defeat and lie in my bed to wait. I know I should sleep as I will have to pay the price of today, tomorrow. I slipped up.

They said, don't give up. Keep writing. Because when words fail so will I die. How else do I reach out invisible hands to eyes and mind of this reality. Now that we are safely separated by walls, space and cement, this is the only way. Each step I take bring shots of pain, piercing, sharply through every nerves in my lower body, which is actually nothing compared to the other lingering ones that would had done greater damage.

I couldn't write the story. How do I continue an end?

antithesis

There are just too many things I cannot put a finger on. I understand damage. But when I look at you, your eyes, your actions, your words just do not telly. What sides do you expect me to take when I do not even know which side you are on. I cannot do what you expect me to do with that contradicting look on your face, you left me with no choice but to walk away. Are we like that? Am I like that? Knowing that we would be damaged further beyond any sort of repair, hurt beyond any form of repair, do we still let ourselves be cut up into shreds. Was I like that in your eyes too? Disgustingly damaged, that you are finally going through what I had to. But are you taking this a little too far? And they would say, what if every deed was done out of love, would damage still face the same penalty? Same criticism? Same judgment? Do you think they would call us Romeo or even Shakespeare?

So when you reach the same level of senselessness in life as I am, what are you going to do next? I would like to know.

9 Hours Later...
I did not know when I mentioned the word senseless, meant that I needed to witness a fight, with blood and someone unconscious on the floor. But it did woke me up, sadistically, felt alive, like an emotion finally passed through me, to end the night.

recognition

How often, we do that. Clinging onto ghosts of things, memories, and people. When we refuse to accept and acknowledge the fact that the moment has passed, our internal turmoil begins. It grows along with time, it does not fade, it does not die, it does not allow itself to be forgotten, it stays, it linger, it remains. Convincing or accepting wholeheartedly are two separate truths to ourselves. One of which sets you free, the other lies. So it was not so bad after all. Everything was less scripted, less manipulative, less awkward. The same wit made things just a little familiar. It is not a tragedy anymore, rather an awakening. Because I refused, I forfeited. I get that now. It is time to put certain things into the grave. The living must go on. I do not blame the fairy tales anymore. It was not their fault, to neglect the loopholes and thresholds. It was us. Weren't they labelled as fiction from the start? Our reality was just not so prominently classified to us.

The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate. The present alone was significant...
- Kate Chopin -

impression

It is hard to narrate when the beginning was not even clear in the first place. So I will try my best to recover the start...

I do have this impression that maybe if it wasn't this heart, I would not be the one writing.

Till now I do not comprehend the screaming amidst the music and poetry blaring from my ear phones, but I am thankful that it creates a beautiful distraction, an attempt to steal a little part of me away. I am the master of distance, loving and never loved, waiting and never waited, the author that will never be understood. The replica is the price I pay to retain your ghost. Every anger and frustration is a constant reminder of why I am still here. Then I recalled that you have been dead for awhile. You, who had held me, would never return to hold me again. You, who had kissed me, would never grace my lips again. What I see are just shadows, lingering at the corner of my eyes, showing me the things that I desire to see. I cannot tell the difference between reality and fantasy anymore. Because accepting either possibility is harsh and brutal; you will never come back again. These words are constant reminders of your death. A time that I have missed and I would never relive again. Unless the gods decide to persecute me in an exquisite, psychotic manner that would make me submit willingly. The poignant predicament is that I know exactly how.

You did not come back for me, to tell me that I am already dead.