Coincidence is the start of something funny, perhaps love. It’s the first curl on someone’s lips after finding out you watch the same kind of movies. It’s the plans running in your head as you talk about this quaint coffee shop most people haven’t heard of. It’s a song slowly fading in on cue when you both laugh at an old stupid joke your neighbor used to tell. It’s when you share the same opinion about politics and then decide to talk about conspiracy theories instead. It’s the excuse hopeless romantics use to meet again on this upcoming event. Coincidence stops when they finally meet on the event and went for beer after. It stops when they arrange to go out the next weekend to watch a new horror movie. It stops when they check out the quaint coffee shop and realized it wasn’t so empty like they expected it to be. It stops when they both start making time for each other just to talk about aliens and the moon landing, to listen to corny jokes and cheesy songs, to decide to officially see each other and meet again and again and again. Coincidence stops when something funny finally happens, perhaps love. And probably commitment.
I dreamt of flying to a faraway heart of which the distance is just one step apart.
So close in touching the sky and yet so far in holding your hand, so easy to step on the ground and yet so hard for our lips to land.
I dreamt of flying to a faraway heart. But I never imagined dreams could be this short.
I dream of flying from a faraway heart. Your incessant indifference will be my passport.
It has become unusually harder for me to create bittersweet stories which evoke a bit of melancholia ever since pain stopped knocking on my heart.
I am questioning myself if I could still feel something, anything—anger, bitterness, frustration, shame, love, sadness—towards some certain people in my life and how important that emotion is in our relationship, but I’m afraid at times I feel empty because there is nothing to feel.
I oppose being empty, my mind resists engaging at the very thought of it, my heart stubbornly refuses to believe it is real, that it could happen, especially to me.
I who have joined the bandwagon of cold people claiming they have empty hearts when they are really just lonely. I who turned sadness into art whenever tears reach the tip of my tongue, or even when tears haven’t come. I who became overly familiarized with pain that I recognize it in other people’s eyes and understand it with my heart. I who thinks of welcoming pain again in my life, just so I could divert my attention in feeling nothing when there could be everything, or even just a thing.
The rain used to make my ink bleed with pain, now I’m asking pain to make my ink bleed when it rains.
To the one who liked me,
I know what you did last December. You hugged me, we were sleeping next to each other. I let you, I was trying to feel if my heart will waver.
But your hand on my stomach didn’t even make the butterflies come out, your breath on my head didn’t even bring any shiver down.
Swallowing for air, both of us are aware. Awake and aware. Pretending to sleep, we decided not to care.
In case you’re reading, I apologize for having written this down to paper. It’s just hard to ignore the words once they appear in front of you and make you remember. But I guess it’s not hard to ignore this particular letter, just like how we ignored what you did last December.
From the girl who liked another man
P.S. Some details are tweaked for privacy purposes.
Flee—it has become the word that her heart has been pumping. To run away, fade, and vanish.
Ambitions turn into demons controlling the mind, dreams are screaming where are we going with this life?
Fade and vanish. Away from this free world prisoning her to live the way she likes.
And maybe die.
If this blog is the only medium of my writings, one would think that I haven’t written anything on the month of September. But I have. A lot, mostly drafts.
It’s that time again, when my mind is so drained that finishing a poem is just too much, when my feelings are so complicated that I don’t even bother to try and understand, and when the future is so bleak that you don’t know what you really want.
But I think, well it’s a common knowledge really, that the value of writing is not how great your pieces are or how well they are received, it’s when you are able to pour your heart out and really express what you want. Forcing yourself to write would do you no good, it just comes out naturally. Like love, perhaps.
So when my pen ran out of ink, I let it be. For once in a while, it needs to rest and stop bleeding just as my heart.
Daily Post’s Value.
And it just dawned on me that we’re halfway through the year.
I wonder if I’m anywhere near my dreams, if I can reach my goals, and if my feelings are valid and real.
Some days are full of doubts, some are blooming with colors, and the others sound just the same—the monotonous life that we lead to survive.
This night looks similar to the nights before, when a simple fact or idea that entered my mind will make me look at my life, the past, particularly. And then comes a rational female voice which reminds me that what I have right now is more important than dwelling with what’s gone, with the past. It will also whisper something sweet, that there’s something to look forward to in the future.
And right when I’m about to sleep, the stars will put me in awe, especially the one that’s closest to the moon. It kind of tells me to hold on to my life dearer, or even as much as it holds on to the sky, just to see the moon.
And maybe that’s why I wake up each day, to get closer to my moon.