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.
The beautiful creaking sound of the wooden floor as I carefully tread the empty gallery is satisfying.
It was a territory I have always been familiar with—my well-planned steps on the way to your heart.
And just like the gallery, it’s empty.
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.
Empty, that’s being nothing, feeling nothing.
Reading the quote above though makes me wanna believe that the emptiness we feel from time to time doesn’t go to waste. If we leave traces of ourselves in everything we love, then feeling empty is worth it. But that’s not to say that being empty is okay. For if we really leave traces of ourselves to those we love, then we also get traces from those that love us.
And if that’s the case, which I’d like to believe it is, then no one will ever be empty for a long time. We just need to learn how to accept the pieces from the others, and how to give our pieces only to those who deserve them.
The street that gave color to my childhood is dull and empty, figuratively.
What was once a playground for kids who knew nothing is now a mere path which connects us to our houses, literally.
Innocence turned to ignorance, frankness changed to silence, and those who used to be friends are nothing more than just neighbors at this moment.
The familiarity of the place is not comforting anymore.
I never wanted to get out.
Daily Post’s West End Girls.