Serene. I was.

Standing as one with the stillness enveloping me.

I didn't have to move from where I was, I could remain without an itinerary.

I didn't want to return nor wake from this dream.

I was beautiful.

Standing alone.

Resuming this skin is painful. Knowing how much you could do without and then returning to what you are made to live with. Stepping into a world without technology & lights has brought pedestal thoughts into place. You question yourself repeatedly how much will you give up of this to live in minimal. But then you fall into the same hectic again and all that was, was.

Everything in my life has been pulled like a rug from under me. I am falling like Alice. But there is no bed nor concrete floors or ceiling to cushion this drop. I am colliding into every piece of furniture winged at me. I cannot duck without gravity. I do not feel too well to be out of bed. But I guess a little crowd could do some remedy. I am not doing too good. And yes, I cannot do anything about it.

In a vacuum I scream without a vibration without a sound.

When I finally touched your shoulder with my bare flesh...

You were gone.

Like a camera, the focus was overwhelming. Too clear. Too close for comfort.

The fine details made me cringe.. instinctively my hands reached for my heart and chest...
A sting that lingers.

In the background wanting out.

I fade on the front
Obediently, blending into the only thing that is left.

We were running and I held onto your towel before meeting your hands.

You were wearing a yellow shirt.

I was chasing a dream then.

I left it to the gods.

And they tossed us together that morning.

Nothing.

But a memory now.

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

-J.K-

I feel the damage escalating. It doesn't fade. It amplifies. It rides. On everything. These are more floors than I have imagined, I didn't know you could reach up so high with such intensity. The lights made the spiral a memorable fairy tale like effect. The truth won't set you free, it chases you into the opposite direction with your own version of saving. Further into the ground you descend with the cold hard metal plates servicing your last stand.

You got off wrongly they said.

But where did you begin in the first place?

Hands were made to hold.

Even though I am only seeing, watching them now.

Guess it's true, things that you can 't loose are the things that you don't have.

Just like how reality last longer without it's actual existence.

The only place we pass each other in haste; never colliding.

And every time I hear the noise overhead, I wish I could capture you here.

At the in between.

Maybe we were the ones that initiated their downfall. We pushed them in the direction of this impending chain reaction. The fault should be on us. We thought it was adorable, rather that was how we created monsters in our blunder; visual inclination maladies.

You shot me a sunset, the least I could do was return a sunrise.

Tonight, I told my little heart, do not be bitter.

That was the birth of those cold chills which took advantage of that slit in my chest to seep in.

Desperate to string these sentences even more so to will myself to say it out in the open. He cries for her. What do I have to cry to. I feel like a ghost. Rather, I am crying to ghosts. The smudged yellow imperfections concealed these invisible chains put in place and time. This is driving me insane; I am in a constant struggle of the intangible which is sapping my physical state and conscious mind. It haunts me, having to stay and remain. I don’t seem to be going anywhere. A task that I hate. An emotion that is queer which I can never own and in every possible way wrong and forbidden. I am dancing in tragedies, stroking and fostering self inflicted wounds like a hospitality centre. How long does each distraction last? Before we find ourselves running to the next.

You know that feeling whereby you are everything yet nothing at the same time. The knife balancing itself at the flesh waiting for that slip to gash.

No one writes about the cookies that accompanies the tea.

They sit around the circle which was suppose to make them free.

It is wide and empty in circles unlike a warm cup that fills.

So life is like this cookie in front of me.

Renj

You greeted me today, rarely that ever happens. So what exactly do you want when you left your song behind? What do you have to offer or come to take this time. Without a heart, I can be candid to accommodate.

I know you can keep me even if it is just for the interim, that would be good enough. At least I would be kept in contemplation of attachment lest carnage.

I dared you to prove the contrary but you failed. You are just like the masses. You could not remain. You moved in accordance to my script, I didn't had to do much to chase you away into your next season of summer. Disregard what you did not know; I was this close in returning.

When your fidelity expired that became the finality of everything.

What is your drug tonight? I've chose Leftose & Paracetamol. They sound like reputable names for pleasant advocates whom compels comfort to the mind and body. It is acting up faster than I thought. My eyes flicker as it tries to stay conscious, sprawled out on my working space lies my provisions to write you out.

Your silence magnified your dishonesty, you were afraid your words would give you away. That was why I could never read you. I was dancing with your lies.

As my pen scratches the surface of fine paper, I make an attempt to will myself to breathe. I've been holding my breath all this while since you destroyed me, fearing the intake of air would shatter my remnants.

But it didn't. I'm still here.

Writing.

Still.

This is profane. He sought out my words and the offer was far too intriguing to resist.

So I wrote:-

I'm not backing out if you have to know.

I have nothing to offer as my soul is sold.

I cannot promise you anything for everything I own is fleeting and cold.

These should had been my spoken words but I cannot seem to find them when all I can see is your back facing me; So when.

Will you turn around for me.

We were discussing about a scene and I would fancy reenacting it in real life; Let's tweak the ending a bit. You the tracker and I, your victim. Our meeting would be my death. I wouldn't mind a bit. Being dead to the world. At least there is an end and finality to everything. In your hands that is. Beautiful.

Again I have to profess.

My fragility wasn't your fault.

Anonymous said (12/26/2009 at 10:29 PM):

i think i fell in love with your blogs

and your writings.

your emotions

i guess i am just another victim, of your powerful architect in words.

every words seems so fine, yet it's immersed in meanings, that sets me thinking.

with the background music so strongly aiding every word that you wrote.

i can't help it, but read on, til the end of the archives...

as i read, i started to hate you, ... but i realised, you're just a lady with an emotional mind, yet, a somewhat optimistic way of placing words and alphabets into a proper light of truth.

hmm...

merry christmas. i know you are somewhere out there.

enjoying life's every single moment

no matter who you are.

no matter who i am.

we have met.

in words.

in minds of another world... through words. simple... alphabets.

Thank you for your kind words... Yes... we've met. In words.
~

This post is dedicated to eyes that have graced my words.

Thank you for passing by.

I told my heart to hate you. But the truth is. I wanted you so badly that I am still sore about it.

You embraced me in your sweet suffocation or lack of, that my pride could not ingest. I was gasping the moment you left and still am. I thought you should know. You flutter and left me stripped and delicate for you.

It was the first time I felt the initial human turmoil of regret and hurt; the whole impingement of it was excruciating. I would be happier if the world called me crazy. At least I would have all the right and protection to do wrong and be wrong. It will be perfectly lucid to be crazy.

Everyone prefers someone independent so that they can shake off their responsibility. We have become irresponsible in our actions so that things will be easier for us to walk away and not follow through.

Things are simple. It wasn't wrong to be simple but everyone else just isn't.

I cannot keep you. Therefore I am feeling the initial stages of genuine damage in small, insignificant and brutal dosage.

Without frames. You became one.

Hold me and break me again.

I have been intensely curious by the little things in life lately. Silly as it may seem, but I believe in memory's eyes, it will amplify these details in the future. You were like an orange streak in that dark crowded room. I will not forget turning around. It was a lucid instant; I was in your arms. Drawing you in like a predator, your tangibility was delicate and endearing. I swear it was more than the alcohol and cigarettes that got to my head. I was on a high in your presence. Like a current your hands around me, leading the way, away.... felt safe. Nasty little cigarettes that made my head spin faster...

I surprised myself by the probability of that night. I was cruel. I made you lead the way. Standing there. The same scent. The slight awkwardness and silence. Cigarettes and us in a car. You showed me three meanings imprinted on you. None of this makes any sense as I break out into a smile.

Quick get on with the separation already. Stop your preaching about men, or women, or financial issues, of what you are going to do/where you are going to go, without giving a flying fuck about the souls you brought into hell with you.

I feel like moving out.

Maybe just saying things would bring about some form of comfort? Even if it was not real. Myself misses myself being alone. Makes sense?

I am not proud of what I have. I dislike it when I feel just a little, used. Because I prefer to be the one using. Don't we all fancy the upper hand? Unashamedly I do.

Morning started out a little hectic. When I finally settled in for breakfast, I just blocked her out, the ramblings. Too much of a good thing is just... too much. I know where she is coming from, but just, not today or this week or the days to come. I'm not receptive.

I genuinely want to believe again. Foolish. Yes. But better than where I am or have been all this while. The truth is. It is harder, to not be. So at least when I do an actual free fall, I would feel the full extend of damage and destruction of the impending impact. Face to ground, flesh to tear, wounds to bleed, spilled to dry.

Akin to the life cycle of a butterfly. At least it would be worth while. Even if it was all so very fleeting. At least it flew, right?

I can't imagine hitting the restart button. I don't even feel like trying. Give it to me on a platter now and I find it repulsive.

I miss you love.

Begin the begin.

If I die give my body to the sun

Please don't cry

This fear of tears let me run

The echo sparsely tells me where to go

Yet I'm stuck between the rain and the snow

I didn't think dying would be so hard

I didn't think living would be so hard

Waking up in the turning tide

Was easier

Than living in your eyes

Bye love

And the paper let me use it's face

To tell you all of my disgrace

And I'm sorry if you didn't say goodbye

Yes, I'm sorry if I ever made you cry

But none of this time was wasted on you

I thought it was fun walking in these shoes

but the water was just too cold

and your words were just too bold

and the summer came at early spring

and my lines are out of breath

and it screams

as I lie here dying

you haven't lost a thing

Slowly eyes

Are letting go of pain

So if i die

Let my blood leave a stain.

What is wrong then? Taking pleasure in watching someone's agony and death on screen? We are repressed. Pent up. Explosive. Yet we do our best to detonate that outburst, unknowingly, everyday, in any and every possible outlet that we can find. Taking pleasure in distractions to ease the urges of destruction. We are just a knife away from deadly mistakes.

At the point of vulnerability, we scream and shout, kicking, internally, for sympathy, attention, an applaud, to be understood. Appreciated. Of our weakness bear forth in front of another human being. It is like a naked dance of weakness.

I should be paid to write poetry perhaps. Something that I can immerse myself in. Like a beautiful tragic role play, for once, in which I am not the main character; I enter a trance. I am you for that instant. As easy as slipping on a pair of shoes or sliding my hands into your coat, to feel and taste your warmth, and the raw intense emotions you were overwhelmed in yet unable to seal into words. You feel like the tragic hero in your story. And I... can simply close my eyes and let my fingers take over to string your story into beautiful words.

I posses you in that short... dulcet...trance. You are mine. Owned in that instant. It felt like a sweet intoxicated intercourse, without the actual physical body itself. What a magnificent art, while being worlds apart. So you wait in anticipation for my beautiful master piece to be presented to you, a transaction in which we walk away from, feeling so deeply satisfied.

Eccentric?

Yes I am, unashamedly enjoying every moment of it. It was not you that I was interested in. It is the art and power I get from your well of misery. I take pleasure in that, that's all.

Evidence?

In my archives.

"Could you help me write a poem? Regarding the situation of her and me now." He said.

"I charge per alphabet." I said.

"I'll pay." He replied.

"Like a breath of life, you breathed into me. Sweet endearing thing hanging by a string. I'm everything wrong and imperfect drawn by beauty and light. I took the step to fall again, I chose, not you. Not by your grace but by mine, in which you shall not want." I wrote.

The truth is, I find my freedom... in words.

Life is fleeting. Every moment is. Everyone is. So keep it casual, mean it, enjoy it and be firm on every decision. No matter how small or redundant, or how great and revolutionary it is.

Fate, destiny, “the one”, love, quote me on this, “Fuck it”. It does not exist. I am not sorry to burst your imaginary bubbles of fairy tales and happy endings. A whole load of bullshit was instilled into our young minds creating an unrealistic picture of reality. What was the consequence? Unrealistic expectations versus reality. Who died? You did. Don’t say you didn’t. Because all those heartbreaks, used and abused, play and are played, loved and lost, loving from afar, infatuation in the chase, a change of heart, love and never loved, thrill of a fling, never lovers more than friends; You must had fall in at least one of these categories I have listed. What did you learn?

Decisions that you have made in life so far, has brought you to where you are now.

You can never promise (anyone or even yourself) that you would wake up every day in your life feeling the same way.

Everything was set in motion before you even took your first breath. You are the continuation of someone else’s story.

I saw you again. Yes, you. You didn't have to do anything spectacular. You did nothing. Just the outline of your shadow, and the sudden intensity in the air; I can't breathe. I stop, I loose my appetite, my eyes fixate where your hands are. I will always be standing at the sidelines watching in.

- Counting the Seconds -

It sounded like the last line. It sounded like I didn’t try. Perhaps it is time for the progression of wear and tear to commence. A sting and a cut to my left cheek. Nothing resounded nor an alarm bell going off to remind me of the call should I make. I ask myself why. Weary of the social etiquette, human?

Shot by L.A / D.C - Cross Heart Anchor

But what about the men themselves? What about the pilot who returns from the moon and knows with a mortal certainty that he has already done the most noteworthy thing he'll ever do and now must keep himself busy for the next half-centrury? What about the existential whiplash that comes from being on the moon one week and in your living room the next-and having to find your own way to process the vast gulf between those two worlds?

"Remember where you're standing when the spotlight goes off, you'll have to find your own way off the stage."

- Jeffrey Kluger -

Numerous times in a day, I feel out of breath; suffocated. An acute paroxysm to my left, it must be my heart; and no matter how I hit at it the pain refuses to go away. It lingers. So I gasp for air despite being surrounded by it. I fear to breathe, but I need to. It is excruciating to breathe, but I need to. With each episode I concede this is how I will go. Out of air.

I got out of the car, and sat by the sidewalks and waited. I trace the windows to your floor and watched your light. This too feels familiar. If I had called, the night might have ended with a different scene.

I withdraw those hallucinations from my head and lit my cigarette. It is that allure and this sentence which summarizes the predicament: “They want me. I want you. And you want someone else. But none of us want to turn around.” - Iain Thomas

Then I thought about that instant, when I held your eyes, and I knew… I was not orthodox.

I saved a draft to write again later. So you won't know the actual moment and place that I wrote this to leave behind in time for you to read. I have learn to do that recently. To fake control of time. Your the feeling that never goes away. The only answer to my question that makes the most sense to me.

I wrote the last sentence, placed the last full stop. I knew what was coming. The pen slipped from my hand and I closed my eyes. 'So', I heard her say, or perhaps it was me, 'it's just the two of us now.' I argued with her for a bit.

'It will never work, I've forgotten.'.

'But I haven't forgotten.' She says.

Shot by Jefinski - Su Le Pave

This is the last time, this is the last line,
Sunset to sunrise morning to midnight
This is my goodbye
Blow out the candle, The bottle is dry
And if pages learned to think
You're not even worth my black ink revenge
I guarantee you'll miss me.

-J.S-

There is a distinction between knowing what we want and what we don't. We can be so sure with either choices. But still, there will be something lacking. A tint maybe?

It's been years. And I find myself still here. I am still here. The evidence is clearly displayed in the list of archives. I am still here, I am still writing. Why?

- Shot by Freja Beha -