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.