these times

In the late nights of unfulfilled heartache, I tend to understand what I truly crave from life. These riveting, yet subtle longings to get up and dance stronger and longer than the oceans currents, or to yell louder than the roar of the famished ocean, are what get me through the day. Sitting outside, with the safety of my car door hiding me from the shrieking corners of this God forsaken place is where my mind rests, but only momentarily. These moments come in bursts, and these bursts come from the the elongated yearnings I have built up in tiny rooms in my thoughts. Sometimes, I find myself taking solace in things that break me. I almost crave things that destroy me, so I can hide away again, and find my balance.


I am still not quite sure what to do with today but that's all the writing I got out of it.

To Whom it may concern:

Being flushed with emotions; having them exposed on one's skin. To see them arrayed for your other parts to witness.

If thoughts are to pervade, maybe the ones walking here incur to behold the beauty each gesture may contain. Perhaps one's belief is contrary, maybe some long to keep them bedfast.


For me, to see those secrets is an honour. It's something I will always withhold in the deep crevices of my abstruse and cryptic thoughts, only allowing to be put on display if I am ever to see the one that once held those secrets again, and inquire the tolerance to keep them a little longer; maybe write with them. Maybe it's me yearning to exist in that life; to move and breathe the same air as the one I am asking permission. Or maybe it's to fall sleep in the same hand-me-down bed sheets of a figure I once took such admiration to. I bet I would find pieces of your continuance hiding in all the folds. Maybe I would find my own reality harboring all the same.

It took me so many moments to acclimate being in more than one piece. I thought we'd meet at the junction, but I never heard the footsteps, or saw the brief stretch of smile I had been anticipating. Now, I am standing at a critical juncture of two fleeting lives I never accomplished to appreciate.

My apologies exceed anything I have ever felt before, and I cannot even begin to apprehend where to go from here.


But the one I once knew is now a stranger I want to know.




You are gone.

Something different

To rise with the sun of dawn,

So little, so fragile, as if she were a fawn.

Witnessing something as bright as she

Wondering all through the night ” Oh, how I wish I wish I was the sea!”

For the ocean feels the Sun’s warm embrace,

Scattered all along the shores, how I wish I could have a taste!

But battered and bruised am I,

Closer than her, but I say with a sigh,

How anxious I get when the clock strikes noon

But alas, I must not forget, I am but the Moon.

Stoicism

We’ve put on our best impressions for people who can’t see past them. We constantly compromise the person we truly are, just to figure out if we can get any far. We root ourselves in folly and fictitious affection; things that cannot apprehend true adoration. I’ve become oblivious to gestures of such.


I aspire to flee from such unsoundness, to maybe witness something more than just a synopsis; An existence pervaded thoroughly and purposefully, something that is meant to be seen by not only the blind, but those unwilling to see.

scattered gratification

Today was forfeit before it even began. I'm tired in so many ways of the life I am living right now. Not tired of living as a whole, but in this specific time and place and setting. The words I speak here are underestimated and misunderstood. The nights are taken advantage of by sleeping and dreaming and I can't help but wonder if anyone here even begins to understand why I want to run in the opposite direction(highly unlikely). I miss the roads and wet pavement. I long for the safe forests and nights next to the vast ocean. 

I sit on a futon and write about things people don't want to think about. As when I speak, I speak of things people don't want to talk about. 

Maybe that's why so many existences are bland and unfulfilled. We talk words and lines, experiences and past. But we don't talk emotion and feelings. We don't talk stories and wholehearted truth. We sit cross-legged, with our chin up hoping no one will ask anything that requires further inquiry from you. Not because you are incapable, but because life is so much "easier" to live when treading the surface; when nothing is intimate and everything apathetic. The part of that philosophy that I find contradictory is, treading water is so much harder than allowing your legs to rest and let yourself float, and eventually drift to the bottom.