Then the stage lights dimmed
As slow as my heavy breathing
A band of nine started to sing
As I walked farther from him
It was a night of pain and glee
Though the songs hit me badly
All my illusions became blurry
Then I turned light and free
The band stopped playing
But the lights are still dim
I casually left on a whim
Without him even caring
I believe there are more emotions out there we don’t even know the name of. We try to associate them to a certain feeling so other people could understand, but they couldn’t; not even you could understand it, let alone people who don’t really care.
I believe love is all the emotions out there we don’t even know the name of. We try to associate it to a certain feeling so other people could understand, and they do; because everyone understands it, let alone people who haven’t loved at all.
P.S. A (stupid) theory I wrote October of last year. But seriously I was just waiting for a prompt to publish this, which I know isn’t how prompts work. Lol oh well
The picture evokes different kinds of emotions, but mostly the melancholy ones. Like waiting for something or someone that would never come.
P.S. Ever since I took this photo it has been etched on my mind. I hope you really feel something out of it.
Time will lead you back
to old conversations
to forced messages
to sweet words
Vaguely asking questions:
has the heart healed
is the love still there
did the pain go away
are feelings just dormant?
I hope in your mind the answers land.
Some clouds move faster than the other clouds.
I guess it says so much about our hearts moving on.
But some days, there are no clouds at all.
See: Inks and Pain
Search: feeling empty
Daily Post’s None.
You can’t force art.
That statement has long been in my mind since I skipped blogging for a month, I just can’t seem to bring the words straight out. Since then, I have published three posts which imply that very thought. And two of them share a connection surprising enough for me to write about it.
October last year, I wrote “the pen ran out of ink,” sharing how I kept writing but stopped publishing for a while, the reason being I barely get to finish a piece I could proudly put out, and claiming that my ink needs to stop bleeding from time to time, just like my heart. February of this year, “Inks and Pain” came out, and in it I talked about struggling to produce bittersweet or sad stories because my heart stopped bleeding at once—almost as if it’s feeling no more—driving me to ask for pain when it rains, so my ink could bleed again.
It’s not just because of the ink that the connection was made (I just really like that word) but more so with the contrast of emotion from both posts which affected its bleeding. The abundant feelings of last year obstructed me to write but the emptiness of today doesn’t make it any different. Even this post took me a while to make!
Now I rarely write down ideas on tissue papers and receipts or on anything I could take a hold of, my Notes don’t receive sudden thoughts I could turn into poetry, I am lost for words and my mind is probably still on vacation.
You can’t force art, but you can force yourself not to think too much about it and try out other things and just live. And maybe then, art will introduce itself again.
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.