Spectrum

Her touches are the colours of warmth,
The crispy shade of dried leaves,
Crackling under the steps of old souls,
The rough edges of red bricks,
Dust and dirt filling the gaps of familiar fingerprints,
The strokes of beauty on the wide canvas of the sky,
Moments before twilight,
When the sun for once is not painful to the eyes.

Her words are a range of soothing hues,
The fresh smell of newly mowed lawn,
The same that stains scarred knees,
The comfort in laying your head on the ground,
Ends of grass that tickles the exposed skin,
Between the torn hem of worn denim
And loose ankles, sprained too many times.

She is a pantone of strength and security,
Bright and scary like a series of thunders,
During the peak of a turmoiling storm,
Deep seas reflecting the image of the sky,
But also calming ombres that darkens towards the horizon,
I was fooled to believe that they are only separated by a fine line,
When they are dimensions that never meet.

This is my version of TaySwizzle’s Red or Halsey’s Colours, whichever genre you listen to.

Also, i think i might have tried too hard with this, as much as trying too hard can get at 6 in the morning with no sleep the previous night. I only hope I do not sound pretentious in this.

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I’m sorry I haven’t been able to post anything. I’m currently working on a piece but I’m having problems distinguishing the lines between being too honest and too exaggerated.

And I would really like to write another short story again but that requires having a decent plot, which means I need to actually think. LMAO.

Hi World, I do not need for you to know me.

At a certain point of having this blog, I realised that I really wanted to be heard. I desired for my thoughts to be understood, for others to at least try to see it how I see it, regardless if they agree with me or not. But in all honesty that does not matter. I have discovered that now. That my goal was never to be understood by the world but by the few people I care enough to share what it feels like to see the world through my pair of boring, brown eyes.

Then isn’t it stupid for me to run a public blog when the obvious way to achieve what I really wanted is through personal communication? Well, I guess, but the more attached I am to someone, I find it harder to express to them my real thoughts. Especially the controversial ones I keep hidden. Also, I must say, putting my heart out on my sleeve isn’t something I am particularly good at.

Writing here is easy and between the two paths diverging ahead of me, I choose the easier one. As much as I know everyone who reads this are human, I do not put an identity on any of you, no faces attached to the views I get everyday. I am detached from you. So, I do not care what are your perceptions of me after you have done reading what I decide to tell you.

What I could do instead is maybe start a project like one of my friends have done. She writes letters to all the people around her. Despite the fact that she never sends them, it still serves the purpose: She gets her thoughts cleared up and it is kept private. Maybe I should start one as well. And maybe unlike her, I should hand them to people when I feel like the time is right. And just maybe, you might have one with your name written in block letters (cause I cannot write cursive)on a worn envelope with dog ears on two out of the four sides.

As for now, I have taken off the link of my blog from my public accounts. The only ones who have access to this blog now are people who have visited it or people who stumble upon it after being on the wordpress reader and they aren’t many of them. So now, this becomes more personal to me, well at least as personal as a public blog can get and I feel more safe writing what I feel like writing.

Ps: Also, recently I was hanging out with my sisters and I asked if they have read my blog and they told me that they had but they could not really understand what I was saying. They said it was too poetic (in a bad way). If you agree with them please tell me. I guess I sound like I am trying too hard half the time. Have I? I am not really sure myself.

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It’s been a while

I think, I think too much
And that’s another thing to think of
Besides the subject that is you
Running laps continuously around my mind
While I am always known as a slow walker
And I cannot keep up

My friends tell me they never know what I want
And I have never minded just settling with ignorance
But when every mention of you is accompanied
With multiples ‘i don’t know’
This once, I really care to know if I care for you

I seek left and right for some sort of advice
And there is one straight ahead who could help me
But how could I possibly ask you about you?
Even if your insights would be the most insightful

Timing is everything, I agree
So tell me if I should reopen this after a year
Or should I just let it go like I did three years ago?
You are 7 hours away but it does not matter
Because what are years and hours and memories?
They only make this sound more tragic than it is
When the only tragic thing is us stuck in GMT-friend

I’ll be honest, I am nervous
And if I’m lying I’d say I’ll talk to you today
All this time knowing today will never happen
Shall we trade experiences once this is over?
Today I wish for you to read this
Today I hope you could magically read my mind
Today I will stop being complicated and mess things up
All this time knowing today will never happen

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A reply to ‘Raison d’être’

Raison D’être

 

There are days when I force words out because my brain seems to act like a car sitting in the garage for too long, needing a few attempts before the engine purrs to life. Those days are hard and most of my work produced usually ends up in the draft folder I never revisit.

Then there are times when thoughts start to suffocate me and I cannot function. When my life looks like everything is right where it should be, but my mind is a mess I need to organise. It is then that my work seems less pointless. I guess because that is when I write the truth. Sentences that are not laced with exaggeration or randomly placed jargon to make it sound better.

I guess I write because there is actually so much about myself I do not know. This is partly because I never question anything really. When I am asked how my day went, it would take me a few seconds for me to actually think of it because I never do. I live knowing that I have to go through days however they turn out to be, so I never really cared if it was a good or bad day when I should.

I never really knew what I liked and what I do not. They used to be the same to me. I just power through whatever it is that comes my way. Maybe because growing up, I was never really in a position where I could choose for myself. Lessons are pre-chosen by my school or parents, I wear what is approved by my family, I do what seems to be appropriate to everyone else. I am a produce of a relatively constraint surrounding I would say.

Writing makes me question every underlying assumption I previously had. If not, what I write would not be convincing and if I am not convinced by it how would it ever help me sort out conflicts between the thoughts I have in my head? I do hope whatever I write would bring people pleasure or some sort of joy or satisfaction but essentially, they need to fulfill the main objective: for me to fully understand this loaned soul of mine and once I achieve that, hopefully I get to be a better person. Although that is arguable.

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Exam season is when I waste a lot time on wordpress to avoid having to finish readings I never bother to understand.

🙂

13 years

There are some things you just cannot seem to forget.

She came home when she was 8, report book squashed between multiple other thick textbooks in a bulky Digimon bag. Like any other night, after the 8 o’clock news, when both of them are resting in front of the television, she entered the room. The thin green book in hand as she made her way to the right side of the bed where he lay. She must have been smiling. She was probably 3rd or 4th in class. Never the smartest but it did not matter to her.

She handed the book to him, and he shifted further up the bed, leaning against the headboard, the flimsy book in his right while his left hand lifted his glasses above his eyes to rest on his head.

‘How could your average score be below 90?’

She had never thought of why she did not do better than she did so she really could not answer and just looked some place else. Her score was 86% or 87%, she could not really remember.

‘I’m not going to sign this, get your mom to do it.’

She was a little shaken and confused, mostly confused, so she took her book back and walked out of the room. It was either that or she moved to the left side of the bed, where the other lay and got her to scribble her initials in black pen instead. She must have slept on a salty pillowcase that night. The book was later returned to her class teacher, with the other’s signature on that page.

And all the pages after that. Every single one. She had never bothered to ask him for his signature after that day.

She is 21 now but she still remembers. Each time, it hurts the same way it did when she was 8.

I am sorry.

I love you, but I still remember.

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I know I sound depressed 99% of the time, but rest assured I am not. I am just into angsty writing. Whatever that means.

Just in case, anyone is wondering about my mental health. Who knows?

You take up too much of my sleep

You take up too much of my mind
And I hate how I allow this to happen
It is like I am saying
‘Hey, I see you lurking around the corner,
Come closer and let’s see what you have for me’

This is not a poem of devastating sadness
Of a love unreciprocated
Or about undividided attention
This is me too lazy to write paragraphs
But not poetic enough to write lines that rhyme

There are things I need to say out loud(figuratively)
To validate and maybe promote them
From being muddled thoughts
To half-assed poetry or whatever you call this

*

The people you love are not the ones
You whisper sweet nothings to
But the number you dial immediately
When you feel like the whole world is closing up on you

The people you trust are not the ones
You share your deepest secrets with
But the ones whose advice you accept
Because you have allowed their opinion to shape your decisions
It is almost similar to consensual dictatorship

The people you respect are not the ones
You speak politely to
As if your tone would hurt them physically
But the ones whose words you value
Even if they are completely not what you stand for

And if all these made up assumptions
Are actually true
Then you are the person I love, trust and respect
But that does not mean we are anywhere better
Than we were before I said it
We are too deep in debt with our own selves
To even start owing each other a part of us we cannot provide

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I care very much about what people think of me, but I wish that people not think of me at all.