Photography

happenstance

Ordinary structures that fascinate me—formed by happenstance and captured to last forever. Unlike your heart in mine.

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Poetry

sharper & stronger

Some images
are sharper
with more grain

Some portraits
look clearer
with a bit of blur

Some exposures
are darker
than your days

Some hearts
are stronger
than they were

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Poetry

dormant feelings

Time will lead you back
to old conversations
long interpreted
to forced messages
accidentally deleted
to sweet words
never expressed.

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.

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Poetry

a feeling of uncertainty

Oh how I want your hands
on my face, tracing the scars
delicately. I feel your heart
trembling against my skin
full of secrets. The whispers
to my mouth are wildflowers
from my lips. And your eyes
into my soul make me weak.

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Strange

Faraway Heart

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.

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Bitter

a gallery 

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. 

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Strange

Inks and Pain

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.

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