The heart sheds tears the mind can't fathom

Ramming headache,
Empty bottles.

Empty heart

Going through all the motions and yet nothing is quite aligned. The stars don't shine and the birds don't sing. Of all the blurry faces that passed by, none inspires me.

Riding a twisted emotional roller coaster of my own making.

Perhaps you make your own suffering because it's a safe zone. No one can hurt you if you hurt yourself first.

Poisonous thoughts

Inadequate–– always inadequate
Gently suffocating under the bitter, sweltering
heat of your own self-effacing making

Struggling to struggle
against the vicious cycle
like the unconvincing, half-hearted
and broken wings of a fly trapped in tree sap

Within the viscous amber liquid,
beating,
beating still––

The insincere grace of courtesy
rather than purity of determination

Lilac-tinted visions of pasts, and the futures that could-have-been.

You remember them in moments, animated vignettes captured for eternity.

The heart sheds tears the mind cannot comprehend

And still you can't tell them––

"I miss you"

Bouts of sentimentality that hold nothing but heart-wrenching emptiness. 

I wish my heart would ache

Perhaps it's for times like this that the beautiful little things exist. Laugh a little more, live a little more, until that laughter becomes real, dust of color that eventually form something substantial.

When you lose something you've once truly treasured, something which no longer means anything to you, it leaves a gaping hole, snatches something from your soul, even if losing it was a conscious choice you made. You are the void, a burst of cold air seeking to feel something in the warmth of a human touch, a kiss, an embrace, shadowy forms that crosses yours. Smile because you can't feel anything, cover up the emptiness of your eyes, your phantom heart.

Dusk

Pink tendrils of silky color seeped into the sky at dusk, silently spreading and altering the gentle hues of pastel blue, almost touching the tips of the soft clouds sifting by. The setting of dusk is in perfect harmony with the rhythm of time, a flawless transition in temperament, a measured sounding of honey-warm chords played on harps. It is in such moments of sublime configuration –– no rough edges that needs to be rounded out, no dissymmetry that needs to be justified –– that the ultimate presence of continuity reigns. Not a mechanical progression in the stages of daily existence, but a natural lengthening of pages in an incomplete story, an unfinished musical phrase. Time is distorted in the larger schemes of things, so greatly spread that the most imperceptible milliseconds of events are just as substantial as leaps in centuries. It then becomes two simultaneously existing lines of possibility and reality. One is the other, and the other is one.

Empty Shells

In the silence of the night, the uneven chugging of trains quietly interjecting, you touch your fingers to the sky. Your thoughts speak only in grayscale, whispering, to blend into the picture of heavy tranquility. For even thoughts are much too loud. So you drown it all, place an unyielding hand on their struggling voices, take away their consciousness. It's better this way, always better this way. Better to feel and not think. Emotions without thought, without form.

Day in the Life of A Street Cat

Warm. Humid.

The prowling street cat never sleeps. Always awake, always watching. The sharp piercing eyes judging the quality of your soul, lends it an air of regality despite its coarse, dull appearance.

It moves–she moves–with dignity and grace, as if living in the cold darkness of the outside world was not an outcome imposed by the cold hand of fate, but a proud display of independence and disregard for droll, earthly concerns.

A fine coat of soft grey hair, eyes the cold of the night, it is a creature that seems more human that humanity itself. It knows what it wants, and nothing will stop its way; a little nuzzling against a passing foot, not begging, but a business-cat striking a deal.

Nightfall - recurring dreams

Dreams that are exactly alike, down to every last detail.
And not in a friendly manner.
They make you wonder if they carry a special message or calling. Perhaps you only ever have the same dream, but sometimes, you forget before the dawn. Sometimes, you forget and all that remains is a nagging feeling that you shake away.
To be revisited by a familiar childhood dream, is it a blessing or is it a curse?

Fate

It wasn't until I really started thinking about it that I realized I've always believed in the little symbols. What is known as fate. And it's a beautiful thing, to think that some things are meant to be, that some things are more special than others. Perhaps that's not the most accurate description, because if you believe in fate you're supposed to take the entire package for what it is, but that's how I see it. To think that precisely because no matter what, and in whichever sequence happens, it would still lead to an inevitable destination, a decision, an epiphany. It's really rather romantic.

Cheap Birthday Candles

It's scary how much control our emotions have over our lives. Or at least my life. Perhaps a more accurate word would be 'state of mind'. It determines every single movement you make, every single word you utter; it determines your responses and reactions to those around you, those you care for and cherish. The same people towards whom you may feel a sudden inexplicable and completely unjustified vengeful distaste for, leaving nothing but regret and self disgust. On the good days all is exceedingly well, you wonder how you've ever managed to cope with being such a miserable person. Nature blooms with quiet vitality and speaks a secret language that only you are familiar with, the words on your favorite books flow smoothly and naturally, everything seems to be perfect. But the new friendships that have been built on these good days would only fade with the change in your temper, rather like one of those cheap birthday candles, lasting only as long as its eleven centimeters of wax can burn. Strangled echoes of what could have been. It's rather disturbing really. Because no one else seems to be that way, to experience the same sort of hopeless uncertainty. And that's your cue, it's when you look at the others and realize what you're feeling is singular. That's when you become bitter and jealous. You notice it too, the subtle changes in their response.

Awe

To be awestruck by an object, a piece of art, an idea, is an interesting experience, sometimes even an elevating one. Because one's awe, is like a hot iron, or a stamp, it marks the object in question as one's own. Or rather, it consumes, like an amoeba of some sort, everything striking. everything of importance, everything about the object, essentially, that rouses one's awe. And it makes it part of one.
But to be awestruck by a fellow sentient being that is a person, one is abased, one is reduced. Because in being awestruck by another person, one is absorbed by their awe-striking qualities, and rendered into nothingness.
And when identifying what we perceive to be our inferiors, we are displeased, while it is also displeasing to be degraded. Perhaps that is why there will always be a wall of some sort, no matter how thin its membrane.

Close your eyes.

Close your eyes. Close your eyes, and count to ten. Slowly --

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

And when you open them again, don't blink, open them even wider, like a camera lens zooming in. You'd have crossed into a world so vastly different and yet so vexatiously unchanged. It's as if some one has swapped everything-- the broken pocket mirror, the half filled bottle of water, the blunt pencil, the untidy coils of wire, for an exact replica of itself, blemish and all.

And yet the same wall calender flaps rhythmically, unconcernedly, as the ceiling fan cuts the air, spinning round and round and round. Your bare legs rubs against the same coarse cloth that is the bed sheet. And yet something, something's off.

Lying, motionless, your eyes closed, feeling the uneven covers beneath you. What's supposed to be recognized as a manifestation of relaxation and idleness, heightening the effects of the paranoia, the chaos, the cacophony that is your thoughts. It's like a chord of clashing notes, out of tune. Like a bunch of words, printed one atop another, in different fonts and sizes and angles. Everything's making sense in a nonsensical way. And you just lay there, brows knotted, not knowing what you want, or rather, refusing to know. Like a musical box, stopping abruptly, awkwardly, in the middle of a phrase. You don't know, you don't know, you don't. Know. Yes, of course you do, you're a coward. And that's what they do, cowards, isn't it?

?

Is it fear? Falling, plunging,

down,

down,

down.

Lost

[So I found another old thing]


Lost.
Trudging,
down this infinite path
pain and sorrow
Walking,
no passion
no emotion
yesterday
today
tomorrow

Lost.
This whirlpool of
thoughts and feelings
so very overwhelmed,
you've become numb
Stripped of what you are
Peeling,
off my thin coat of armor

Naked,
vulnerable,
you continue wandering,

Lost.

1:32 AM

And that's what it's doing to you. You're getting so used to clearing a mental to-do list, like getting used to an old pair of worn out canvas shoes, that you're even starting to develop a twisted sort of affection for it. It's become an irremovable part of your life, almost like you're addicted, addicted to goddamned work, to a goddamned routine. It's become a weird sort of salvation, stress has become nothing but a massage, relaxing. Idleness, it makes you uncomfortable, unable to just sit quietly, letting the hands on the clock do its rounds, 

tick,

and tock, 

and tick,

and tock,

letting the sands of time slip by, no longer content with, no unable to watch the gradual change of everything with patient yet intense eyes. And you move the tips of your toes, tap, tap, tap. Your eyes, staring at a fixed point, frowning. Your arms, crossed. Muscles tensed, like a stretched spring. 

Broken.

-

A jack in the box. A painted smile. Empty eyes. Bobbing up, and down, and up, and down. It seems to be mocking you, with that silent laughter, not saying anything, but as such, saying everything. And its presence, it seems to be getting more and more pronounced, more and more oppressive. And your heart is pounding, beating a steady rhythm, dum, dum dum. And you try to make sense of it all, but all that you could see are those sadistic, treacherous, bright red lips. 

And your eyes focus, your brain snaps out of its state of helpless lethargy, and the jack in the box continues its bobbing motion, but this time, that's all there is to it. 

So I found this old...thing I wrote some time ago (April, last year?)

A soft entrance of pianissimo notes marks the beginning of the piece. Calm and peaceful, but at the same time mysterious and invokes much curiosity. You open your eyes, and your gaze seems to penetrate the roof. Although you see, you do not remember. You register not the streak of grey dust clinging to the ceiling fan, the incessant buzzing of the mosquito, nor do you make anything of the sounding alarm, for you cannot hear, or rather comprehend what you are hearing. For it makes no sense to you, you hear not. You see, but you do not see. You stumble in this state of half-awareness and you cannot move your limbs. For you do not know you have limbs. You do not acknowledge the existence of them, as you are not thinking, nor are you attempting to. The delicate movement of clean sixteen notes decorates and accompanies the low chord. Your field of vision, the images you see, they seem to be getting sharper, more defined, the soft blurry edges morphed into angry straight lines. You are confused, and your seemingly dormant brain starts to work. The sixteen notes crescendo-ed to a forte-fortissimo, then with a loud clash of the cymbal, everything elapses into an abrupt silence. There is nothing left. 

Trap.

Anger, frustration, despair. Nothing but useless emotions, adding to the frowns upon your face, to a never ending fury, and disappointment. Feelings, what are feelings. What does it mean to feel deeply about something? It means trudging too deeply into a whirlpool of emotions, it means committing, no, chaining yourself to mindless triflings.
And so the key, it's to not care, it's to not be surprised, it's to go along with the flow. Like they all do. Like they all give up, succumbing to the appealing idea of trapping oneself in such armor.

.

One moment the fireworks are illuminating the night sky with their sparkling brilliance, the next moment it's dead silence, encompassing your entire being so rapidly as if it's jealous of that happiness you felt for a mere fraction of a second. You're at the edge of the surface, the crown of you head touching that space separating the liberating air from the suffocating water, at the threshold of clarity but not quite breaking free. Struggling. You're struggling so hard to see, you blink, once, twice, but to no avail, your eyes refusing to give you a clear image of what's beyond the water, rather like an old digital camera out of focus, like a photograph of bokeh effect. It's just a game, this moment, not amounting to even a chapter in this treacherous game.

(More ramblings transcribed from a notebook)