Tag Archives: imagination

The best feeling in the world is when you are able to stand up for yourself and fend off bullies.

There is only so much a person could take. Only so much hatred and frustration one could hold back.

It is absurd that a person does not feel safe in the confines of their own home. There is always the fear of being attacked, harassed or insulted and degraded on a daily basis.

The fight is rough, harsh shoves and raising voices but nothing beats the satisfying feeling of knowing that you can rely on yourself.

Proud.

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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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In the window 43 degrees from her left,
A boy whose lips shape like curses,
And two crescent like craters guarding his smile,
Lies on his bed unknowing,
While she stared out, hoping he would notice,
How she stopped sending her heart his way,
But he did not.

5151 miles away under the blazing heat,
A sun kissed boy waits silently,
For the slow change of heart,
In his partner in crime,
Who he wished could be his partner,
In more than just that.

Somewhere on the equator,
He breathes in the suffocating humid air,
The tight strangle that choked him since 10,
Has been released when he told her,
Things that he should have just kept inside,
Because now she is choking him with silence,
And that feeling is 10 times worse.

She swallows the frustration down, making her nauseous,
Wondering how it is unfair that she could not love,
The people who would appreciate it most,
But instead she throws all she has,
Feeding the drain of indifference,
Wasted in the sewers of unrequited feelings.

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37 steps to 25

You are exactly 37 steps away,
And I have been walking for hours
My heels sore and my feet an angry mess of blisters
Even when I’m at your door, you are too far away
I could never reach you, not months ago and not even now

You are literally a grasp away
And my mind has been trying to make me reach out and hold you
Because if I could not bear you in my heart
Then I guess just the feel of you under my touch
For a few unblinking moments would do
And that is a really sad compensation

You are so close yet still so far
I could see how the shadows deepen the crescents of your smile
Have your shoulders inches from mine
And I know this won’t happen again
So I close my eyes and try to paint this view on the walls of my mind
But in time, my blinks slowly wash it away
Leaving dripping stains of what could have been

You are my thoughts at 25 to 2
The reason my desk faces the window
The person who greets me last in every occasion I could remember
The dreadful gloom creeping over my wishful thinking
And I am blaming you for all this exaggerated feelings
Because blaming myself would make this less of a tragedy

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Drowning in the dark

Fingers splay on the side of her neck, tips pressing down with slight pressure as they move in minuscule circles just enough to wake the nerves. The massage is almost a movement of plea for it to stop being so sore. Her personality is sore enough -at least to everyone else- and there really is no room for her body to add up to it.

…..

She has no rights to nag her own body, it was she who decided it was easier to let her head hung low. Not for a day or two but as long as she could remember, ever since her insecurities became visible to her. Her movements too harsh, her voice too much of a screech, her smile too crooked. It was obvious to her how people reacted when she was herself around them. The slight shift of the body, the millisecond frown of judgement, they were all tell-tale signs screaming at her although they do not deafen her, they still shut her from the rest of the world. In a way, her eyes are too observant. Paying attention to things she could live without knowing. Another flaw carves on a section of her brain that is taking up more space than it should.

…..

A sigh releases from her heavy lungs, not from the damp, salty air but the constant burden she carries for being herself. Her existence is more of an imposed duty. Days do not pass, they drag. At the pace of a Giant Galapagos tortoise. In the middle of a stone quarry. Under the burning Sun of the Iranian dessert. Every breath accompanied with a burn in her heart. It is a wonder how her heart is not the darkest shade of black on the html colour code. Wait, it is the second darkest, almost an achievement.

…..

One leg hovers above the covers with the other underneath, she blinks in the dark but it makes no difference. Nothing does anymore. Her friends are a constant blur of waves and unimportant chatter. A pleasant distraction on good days, a mass of wasted cells and organs on certain days of the month (seven straight days every month to be more precise). They are not stupid, her friends I mean, if we do not take into consideration their school grades. They know. She thinks she has an eye for details but she has forgotten that others could have the same qualities as well. She thinks that that made her special, if that is the case then she really isn’t. They know from her over calculated smile and the way she taps her fingers to the rhythm of when-will-you-shut-up. They discovered it for quite a while now but they are staying right where they are. It is always on the back pages of those glossy magazines, mostly life advices recycled from last decade’s edition: ‘…do not push them away’, ‘stability is important…support them’, ’10 ways to…’.

…..

Humid air makes her nerves tingle with excitement, a vast contrast from the dry air conditioned building she just exited. She looks up to the sky, questioning why she is wasting money on people who asks the same questions and tells her the same things. She begs for something different with hands clasps tight, eyes doing the same as she chants ‘different’ repeatedly in as many languages she remembers hoping that one of it is understood by whoever it is who decides her destiny. The trick -or spell? or mantra?- works. ‘Different’ greets her in the form of a lanky boy crouching against the wall with a smirk stretching across the side of his face that is not visible from where she is standing. The wind sends her an omen through the shivers travelling across her spine but she shakes it off, rapid blinking the only movement she makes for a while. The same wind pushes the light strands of his dark hair as his fingers try to tame it down. The same gush causes the crumpled piece of paper she has been holding onto to slip and float a couple of seconds before it lands in a puddle of muddy water. The already unreadable writing smears leaving a large blotch of blue under the bold, printed word: Prescription.

…..

Fall has always been her favourite season, the warm hues of orange and brown versus the slightly chilly air carrying the sweet scent of cinnamon and pumpkin. That year, autumn never came but she is not one bit sad. Spring took up all four quarters of her life, and it shows from the radiant bloom of her cheeks and the smell of blossoms in her hair. Her odd year consisted of wasting an extra 5 minutes everyday due to waiting and the consistent phone beeps every few minutes filling her phone memory with ‘what are you doing?’ and heart emoticons. Although she felt a certain kind happiness she has never felt before, her unfamiliar body cannot help but cringe at the constant show of affection but accompanying those cringes are no longer scrunched up noses but achingly wide smiles.

…..

He is an enigma, a rubix cube of mood swings and soft touches with far more baggage than the usually capped flight allowance. But she has her own too and although they try and try to pretend that they are better for the sake of the other, at the end rules are still rules and the fine has to be paid. She has always adored puzzles, envying the life of the man whose slender fingers have memorised the deep lines of her palm. She endures the pain her scalp makes whenever she tugs her hair out of frustration as the door closes slowly, broad shoulders fading away. The house feels too big for her and her soul that is shrinking with each minute she spends without the presence of a certain hot headed, cold hearted man who only knows how to do things in extremes. Like spending the night leaning opposite her front door with his head on his knees gently rocking to the tempo of regret, a thousand thoughts on ways to apologise but none that could wash away the guilt that stains him.

…..

She wears a white dress today, the one that makes her look like those characters in children books who always gets the prince. The hem floats around her ankles as she sits on a chair in the middle of the room, her breathing is even, even as her heart beats so loud that it echos in her ears almost making her cover them with her hands to make it stop. A lone tear slides down from her left eye breaking a promise she made to herself earlier this morning, her eyes suddenly find the ceiling peculiarly interesting and continues to stare from a corner to the next for the next couple of seconds. This is it. The day she has imagined multiple times growing up. Today, when the rays of sun woke her up from her slumber, eyes fluttering open while she clears up the haze of a groggy mind, she knew she could never be more than ready for today. With a determined breath, she stood up. Legs a little shaky as she gets in position. 1, 2, 3. She smiles as she took her final step forward, eyes close shut as she begins to feel the pull from her legs as it travels up her body. In the state that she’s in, she has lost sense of everything. She tries her hardest to control her body hoping it will not trash around like a fish out of water. The needle of the clock continues to move even after she has stopped, hands limp by her side while her neck looks slightly crooked. She is still beautiful even after everything that used to define her beauty left her, her personality, her smile, her kindness. Even with the pattern of a braided rope engraved around her neck.

She did not get the prince.

…..


I did it! Writing more than 300 words was always a challenge but I did it! Took me two nights and morning to complete this and I (really) hope it’s not too bad. 

And yes, she died.

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There isn’t a title to this.

Disclaimer: To those uninterested in spending your time reading my attempt at ‘proper’ writing, please proceed to the end of this entry where I happily provide you with a direct summary of what this post should be about.

I’m forcing myself to write. Every word that comes out is deliberately squeezed out of my unwilling brain, fingers involuntarily pressing each key with much more force than necessary. A sudden pause. A rebellion of the mind as vocabularies are stopped from entering my consciousness leaving the tips of my calloused fingers hanging approximately an inch from the keys. I need to do this, I coax myself. Like the common phrase ‘there are things you don’t like that are good for you but you do not know’, this is one of them. But this time I know, I know that this is necessary, pivotal even for me to not have any regrets.

You see for once, I know what I want to do. Whether I can, whether it is even in my reach, we shall leave that to the higher hand to decide. But this desire to paint a picture without paint, to draw vivid imageries with only the monochromatic shades of white and black -although paper is now ‘buff’, not white and the black hue of ink is always debatable- is so potent in me it is beyond the angry, aggresive shade of red. It is the deepest, calmest shade of blue that should not be overlooked. It holds authority and is unambiguous. Never once does it flicker, remaining constant almost knowing that it will never be forgotten even if it’s ignored.

And I am not even close to revealing what it actually is but my heart has calmed in gratitude, a sigh of relief in between the never ending beats of life it drums every second. This is it, a story without a plot, just words thrown here and there with the aim to sound pretty in the heads of those who reads it -or to the ears if one prefers to read out loud-. This is what I’m good at, never finishing a well thought project, or rather focusing too much on the unnecessary that the centre which it’s supposed to be revolved around is lost. Please, view me as one who is intuitive rather than the true unorganised person that I constantly am.

An expected blankness blinds my usually adept thought process. It is often this way whenever I try to write conclusions because the only thing that truly matters from you reading this is not the temporal joy -or misery- this short entry brings but the message that I would like you to ponder on after the wasteful minutes you carelessly spend on me. If the writing does not last beyond the pages it lays stoically, the writer is not doing it right. And that is the thing about literature, it is the art of those who finds bliss in the darkness of their closed eye lids with letters and words -even non words sometimes- as their palette as they dance to the rhythm of their own voice silently echoing from the corners of the almost spherical mind. There is never really a right or wrong in literature but one.

It’s 1.30am and i’m sleepy but I pushed myself to write this post because I’ve been dreading to write something. I think after trying many things, I have decided that writing is what I’d like to do for a living (most probably as a side income because writing alone is not sufficient to sustain my material wants). And I didnt really get to explain that I just need to channel all my thoughts onto something. About the ending, well, I really did have nothing to say to sum up the whole post. Basically, this post is just fragments of thoughts that I pulled out from the train rounding my head. 

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This is not crazy, barely.

A loner.

The most frequent thought that passes through the minds of those passing her by.

It’s not, she thinks. Lonely, she means. It’s not lonely she tries to project through her smiles and the way she carries her self.

It’s quite the contrary. In her mind she could barely count the number of people who lives in the spaces she provides them. From the loud Margaret who’s always full of complains about life to the overly protective Ben. And depending on the circumstances, Haley makes an appearance, too afraid to speak her mind or even be seen.

It’s not lonely, not when you have a whole world living in your mind. Everyone is just incapable of seeing what she experiences, or feel or even start to comprehend this.

She shakes her head silently as Ben tries to stop Margaret from bugging Haley, while the rest of the room watches the scene that is unfolding. A million murmurs erupt.

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