I have found at the end of myself, that there were still roads leading me back right back to the beginning, and after, what then? To drop everything and to sit and look at the moon, the only passivity and calm that tries to evoke any lasting perfect serenity of the situation; I don’t want to live with a mess in my mind everyday but the curiosity is good, good for me.
There were chances to prove what they really felt, but they didn’t take it.
Bright star, would I were stedfast 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 stedfast, 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.
I think there are many things to be unsure of but that doesn’t mean that you don’t believe in them for a bit. I’m certain everyone is unsure of something or some part of their life everyday when circumstances require them to think and weigh their choices and decisions over.
It doesn’t mean they don’t try. And it doesn’t mean they won’t work it out.
The world continues spinning for them on a silver platter served with only the best and most expensive utensils while we sit in a corner watching the scene play out like in a movie theatre, it’s there, it’s real in the film, but not in reality; we the audience can’t touch it, we can only feel and long for something we can see but so distant like a star we cannot hold.
I will remember that small window Bridging the light to the soft of your back and the slender of your curves,
The wind that swept through the grills of iron, touching lightly upon the hairs of your body and the way your hair stood like a million electric sparks had alighted, from the heavens to bless you
The way the moon was grinning in contentment at the long awaited slumber of our souls; When you opened your eyes with the heaviness of sleep, still lingering upon your eyelids
The exact moment, stop.
The way they fluttered cautiously first, open, and then close again, a few times to make the magic last And the way the rain started coming down from the great dark orange sky filled with desire and love,
How do you ever begin to explain these kind of feelings to anyone at all?
That one moment where you feel like an invisible imaginary stake swiftly plunges into your chest in one fell swoop, so quickly but with so much skill that your heart aches like there’s a swelling in your chest you can’t get rid of. Or that one unjustifiable moment of anger or jealousy that rises from the depths of your very soul and come together as a force to be reckoned with, forcing itself out through your narrow windpipe and up to the opening of your throat where it wishes to explode into a scream of unidentifiable truth.
In simpler form of a quicker manner, it means that you’re hurt.
Thank you for taking time to rub my bruises so that they won’t be bruises anymore. If you look at that sentence in many ways, it will still be applicable in all the aspects possible. These bruises are finally disappearing.
Every new lover is special in their own right. There is now lesser meaning to be angry at anything.
I think I’m undergoing that one stage whereby you’re completely numb because of the effects from the anesthesia of love. With barely enough attention left for anything else, I realize that I have left myself perhaps a little bit too vulnerable and exposed. If you want honesty then I’m scared that over indulgence would force a sudden jam in the stream called influx of lovely emotions, and I don’t want that to happen. I’m scared
You come to think many things when it is late into the night and the surroundings are dead quiet. You will feel two different extremes: fear and peace. Your thoughts that would most likely be completely drowned out by the loud noises in the afternoon would probably jump out from hiding places just to haunt your footsteps.
You will walk down an empty, dark, and long corridor or walkway with your breathing as the only sign of life. Occasionally you will hear a branch or a twig snap or fall and you would wonder if it’s just the imagination of your lost paces through your thoughts or the blunt reality of the world. Your heartbeat, as you will come to realize, thumps with the loud clarity of an angry man pounding his fist continuously against a wooden door; each step accompanies a thump and each thump drags along a fresh fragment of a thought.
After running circles in your head and swimming in the maze that is your thoughts, the exit is like a far fetched dream you never would’ve thought you could’ve reached. The moment you put your foot through the door, the harsh winds that threatened to blow you away die down and your eyes suddenly feel so heavy - with purpose, with ambition, and with tiredness.
You come to the conclusion that you have neglected your dog as it prances around your legs like an overly joyous child in a field of flowers chasing after butterflies. In its eyes all it sees is the epitome of perfection, the divine one, the one and only that should be adored and obeyed.
Therapy tonight would involve scratching the back of your dog’s ears as it dozes peacefully to slumber, fully trusting that the center of its life’s existence would never do anything to harm it, to hurt it. You start to think again as you watch your dog with its full capacity of love and hope and adoration towards you, vulnerable; how the mind of a beast or creature in all its simplicity of mind and complexity of parts could ever fully grasp the concept of trust and love (how they should be) baffles you. It will age, and it will die. Eventually.
The fragility of life, the bastard-ness of the human anatomy (even though amazing in its beauty), and the relation of thoughts to men to dogs to love and to life. We complicate too many things for our own good, we try to understand but we can’t trust, we can’t completely surrender our will to another, we have our own ideals, a mind of our own.
And that is why one should always take the time to sit and look at the life of animals, they will teach more than you know - as if their greatest sacrifice and purpose was to live and impart life lessons to humankind, and then die.
There again are our thoughts, so tender, so stubborn, so self-centered but with freedom, so beautiful and glorious. And these are my thoughts and my heavy laden eyes - so sleepy, and my aching body so tired.
Even if they all would tear me apart and rip me into shreds, there would lie in me a part that chooses to be the saving grace - to act as the eye of the hurricane, the calm and peace that lies in the midst of the chaos. There is a dangerous passion that comes with the package of falling in love with someone. You pour your life into the cup of which you share with the girl you love and when she adds her life into it, the mixture has a life of its own; no matter what may happen or is happening, the mixture will have its own voice, own spirit, and it will take its own actions. Let there be times for cooling down and let there be times for fiery intense lovemaking. You have to know the exact moment to let it become a tailspin and when to rein it in and tame it.
I will be sick and giddy with excitement, nervousness and great hope. Those rooms with the lights on everyday with the monotonous aspect of routine timing, the lovers that live on the fuel of each other presences, the eventual death of relationships with nonchalant ends and subsequent depression; if these are turmoils that will construct a bitter ending, it looks like all of us already have it coming.
But right now I couldn’t be more content. She comes to deliver emotions that should never be able to be put into words, simply because they deserve more than words. And when I sleep alone at night, I miss the heartbeats of her warmer embrace when I’m left with nothing but the lifeless cold soul of my pillow. I never notice the emptiness until late at night when my heart beats slower, slower, softer, on its own.