Your parents would pass by your room, and everything would come back in a snap. How they found your lifeless body, ran to you and shook you non-stop just to find out they were minutes late. Your siblings didn’t just lose their wrestling opponent, but one of their idols. That one person they always look up to. Your best friend would sit in tears upon the announcement in school. Even that seatmate who used to kick your chair just to annoy you? He’d be devastated. He’d blame himself. Your teachers? They’d think it’s their fault for not being enough to make the school comfortable for you. You think no one cares? Your family does, your friends do, the people around you, too. Someone right now is thinking of you. Because I do. I may not exactly know how you feel but I know how to feel so f*cked up to the point that I thought ending my life is the only answer. But then I remember, this world is also f*cked up, anyway. Even steven. So let’s all be f*cked up’s in this f*cked up world and LIVE. Might as well witness it. After all, real life is tragic but it’s perfectly worth it. That’s the most optimistic speech you can get from someone pessimistic like me. But please, if you reach this point in my long arse plea, please continue on living your life. You’re never alone because someone will always care. Please don’t die. Trust me when I say, without you the world might not stop rotating and revolving but I know it won’t ever be the same.
When I met you at the park, it was the colour of the sky. As we watched the lovely swans, it was the colour of the pond.
It was also the colour of the berries we liked to eat at picnics. We gazed from the beach at our dates and it was the colour of the sea.
It was the colour of the syrup we’d like to have on our pancakes during breakfast.
On the first time you asked me to dance with you, it was the colour of your shirt. It was the colour of my hair when you kissed me on my favourite band’s concert.
“Mystery,” the representation of the colour of the rose you gave me.
We were as unpredictable as the colour of the gem embedded on the ring in my left hand. Yes, it was also the colour of my dress when you asked for my hand in marriage.
Truly, we were as enigmatic as the colour phase of the moon that rarely occurs but such a sight to see.
It was the colour that felt the most significant for me. It may be the colour of ambiguity but
I knew it was the colour of our love.
Little did I know, it would be the colour of the car that would smash into you before the day of our wedding.
How I wish I could still have one chance to stare at your eyes which also features that exact same colour. That was indeed the colour that symbolises us, because it still remains a mystery to me. We fought so hard to give the colour a different meaning, but depression and sadness and grief was always it would be.
(featured image courtesy of fanpop.com)
Note: This blog entry is for all the dreamers and believers out there. Don’t let anyone define the worthiness of what you who and what you want to be in life. As long as you don’t hurt anybody, your dream is worthy. This one’s for you so keep on dreaming. Be whoever you want to be (unless you want to be a serial killer, obviously) Haha x
I’m sorry my parents find you as a risk not worthy to be taken. I’m sorry my colleagues don’t find you as something cool enough to achieve. I’m sorry my teachers’ view of you is something not as ‘big’ as what they have hoped for and expected from me. I’m sorry the society says you are something broken that my numskull mind has created and wishes to fulfill.
They may be right. Not much people would think of you, nowadays. Even I find you as a road or path less traveled. In a world where money is a great standard and ubiquitous basis of what everybody calls ‘success’, you may not be the best asset in accomplishing it. And yearning for you may be a lost cause one way or another.
They may be right. I would not be the world’s next multi-millionaire person by pursuing you. I would not be drowning in material things any time soon if I risk everything to get to you.
But they may be wrong. Of course, they are. Who are they to tell me what I want to do with my life? Who are they to judge the worthiness of who I want to be someday? Who are they to conclude, that you, my dream is broken and lost cause?
I chose this. I chose you.
So, I continue to take the path that leads to you. Behind me is my own shadow that walks with me. The only thing that keeps me alive is the beating of my own, shallow heart. I know as I walk down the less traveled road towards you, something out there is waiting and somebody out there is also pursuing the same, less traveled path I’m taking. I know there are others like me who feel this way.
So I forget everyone who tells and insists that you are not worthwhile of my precious time. I ignore everyone who says all my efforts in primary and secondary school are all thrown down the waste bin because I chose to follow the path that would lead me to you.
Because I know that when I reach you, I will meet other people like me who used to feel this way because of the judgmental world we live in.
Until then, I walk alone.
But I know when I achieve you, everything will be worth it. I will be happy. I will be free. I will get to do what I truly want. I will earn enough (if not, more) for a living; because I love what I am doing.
And by the way, I would not bother fixing you either.
After all, it is difficult to fix something which is not broken.
(featured image courtesy of deviantart.com)
ROMANCE NOVELS ARE the epitome of picture-perfect life anyone could have asked for. They portray a life where boy meets girl, good girl meets bad boy, cheery meets enigma, pauper meets prince, peasant meets billionaire, and insert here whatever couple you like. Just like every other unique story, romance novelists point out the irony about typical books depicting uncomplicated love stories with a common plot.
Personally, I do not think I could stereotype that most romance books contain the same, boring plot because I have a limited share of books I have read that fall under this genre. Fortunately, the limited amount of books in this category that I have come across seem to deeply and accurately delineate the true to life and seemingly believable struggles and conflicts of fictional but relatable characters.
I believe it’s just about picking the right books which truly knows the term complication but at the same time, arrives at a worth-the-wait happily ever after. At least the characters attain an ending they deserve after all they’ve been through (although I admit my usual pessimistic self is a sucker for tragedy).
But the real point here is that the amount of books one has read can make one crave for something similar in their own lives. However, everyone’s life moves as unique as everyone else’s.
Perhaps, that’s the reason why no one can create a real-life love story that goes exactly like that of a certain plot featured in romance novels. No one ever happens to write a fairytale and turn the precise fictitious events into reality.
I suppose it is because the best love stories are never merely written–they are lived.
So when the right time comes, don’t write your own fairytale. Live the one you deserve.
(featured image courtesy: pinterest)
SHE READ TOO much, way too much, not because she was a snob who would rather read than socialise but because she was not very good at opening up to people. She wrote, immortalised her thoughts on paper since she was afraid to speak up. You call her a ‘nerd’. She listened to her favourite kind of music, the one you call screamo and worthless piece of sh*t. You call her different names for her obsession in books and bands and her little haven annoyed you. Why? Why do you need to call her ‘ugly’, ‘fat’, ‘bitch’ and every name you have in your book? Perhaps, it’s because of your jealousy. You can’t accept the fact that she was happy in the little things she did. Even though she was hurting because of your judgments, she had her escape. And you can’t replicate that side of her. You can’t have the ability to dream like how she did. She wanted to live, you know? She wanted to travel the world, and witness its wonders. She wanted to learn new things, play the oddest musical instruments, meet new people and explore different sights. She wanted to meet her favourite authors and thank them for the books that had been her friend when you’re busy laughing at her. She wanted to meet her favourite bands who had inspired her and made her feel beautiful when you’re busy mocking her. Are you happy now? Are you happy now that you have succeeded in this devious act of yours? You made her lose this little ball of hope that was only left in her precious heart that you keep on breaking. Why do you have to be so mean? So cruel? So judgmental? Now, she’s gone. Long gone are her dreams, happiness, fears, and thoughts. There will be no nerd, bitch, and ugly anymore. She took away her life and you’re the reason why. Thank you for always saying ‘always be yourself if that makes you happy’ and judging afterwards. I hope you are happy now.
(featured image courtesy of favim.com)
One of the coolest abilities that a bibliophile could have is neither the extra speed in finishing a book or two or even the whole series of it in one sitting; nor the most vivid imagination of being one of the characters. Although the latter would be so much cool, both aforementioned notions could not top my idea. As a bibliophile, one ability I’ve always wanted to have is being able to erase the memory of a certain book I’ve read in my mind so that when I read it again, the excitement and thrill of a new good read will always be the same. I know, the adventure and awesomeness of a favourite book will always be there but the first time one has read it will always be the greatest experience. Isn’t it cool? to be able to read a book (or books) over and over and over again but it will always feel like the first time? Could you think of different abilities that would be cool for a bibliophile? Drop it down in the comments below.
Caraphernelia \ka-rə-fə(r)-‘nēl-yə\ noun : a broken-heart disease that occurs whenever someone leaves you, but leaves all of their belongings behind
WAKING UP WITH the sudden nostalgic feeling next to what used to be your pillow. Going out of bed with the melancholic vibe. Brushing teeth with a jolt of sadness seeing there’s an extra toothbrush left by the sink. Eating the pain for breakfast. Taking a shower wishing the misery would be washed away. But seeing the vanilla-scented body wash brings back the fresh smell of your skin whenever I bury my nose in your neck. Looking at the mirror hoping these lips would form a smile someday, hoping these lips would meet yours again; but seeing that photo near the corner reminds me why I can’t. Driving to work thinking of you sitting at the passenger seat and I just want to run away from everything. Doing the job with the constant reminder of how it looked like the way it was before. A photo of us on top of my desk. Sitting at the cafeteria at lunch thinking of the phone calls and text messages sent and received. Taking the long way home just to forget the state of being alone. Lying on the bed as if you’re here next to me. This is my usual routine since the day you left. I’m getting used to it, in fact. I have long accepted that you chose not to be with me. However, can you blame me when the thought of you still continues to linger in my mind? Can you blame me if I can’t forget about you? My heart is shattered and I don’t bother to pick up the pieces anymore for I can’t afford the medicine. But please come back. No, not to fix my heart. Come back and bring with you our memories, the moments we shared, the pain, and the pieces of my heart. It continues to beat for you, anyway.
A SHINING SUN smiling on our skin at the summer is one thing. But the loud clap and boom that resonates through the ears is a different matter. Accompany it with the pitter-patter sound of the rain and the package of melancholic effect is completed. Nonetheless, I have grown to love it.
Until one afternoon, as I have awaken from a nap, I feel a pang of dejection which I know is not new. Although, I have always tried to be cheery in a way, it is not exactly in my nature. Disillusionment is my way of lessening all the discomfort I experience. The earlier the realisation, the earlier the acceptance, perhaps. That is why I have learned to embrace the sadness, it makes me stronger.
That’s when I hear the sky screaming in agony and with it are its tears. It is soothing in a way only I could fathom. A lot of people would surely beg to disagree in my love of thunderstorms but this is who I am.
I am a pluviophile and ceraunophile. I embrace my sad state when I am alone. When I am alone, I listen to the nature’s plea. It can’t handle the pressure, either. Even the sky, explodes and screams and cries. I watch from my window the flash illuminating and the downpour of tears. I hear the rumble shattering the darkness. They, in a way, drown my fears and doubts.
The sky is there even in the worst of times and it sympathises one’s sadness. It is a reminder that somehow, no one is alone after all.
(featured gif ctto)