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.
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.
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.
Writing is scary. At times.
I’m scared of it because once you write, things get more real than ever. Like your feelings for someone: hatred, love, anger, jealousy, etc.
That’s why most of us write indirectly, because we fear the emotions creeping in our hearts and minds. We feel, and we know, that once they’re written down, we can’t get away from it. Or that it’ll be hard to get away from it.
But we can’t help but write. To document, to express, to whatever reason why we do so. And we should never stop. No one should.
Warm tears still go down my cold face. I started running but I still have a long way. I haven’t tried driving but I’m halfway there. And the only thing I’ve climbed up are the stairs.
Ten months after this post and I’m pretty much still wandering. I turned 21 just this January and though I have figured out some things in life I think I will forever wander. It’s a changing world and how are we going to keep up if we wouldn’t change as well? Only time can tell.
I experienced a lot of firsts in my 20th year and even though the last two quarters of 2015 were somehow bleak, that was also the time when most of the unfamiliar things in life that made me who I am today came. I never asked them to introduce themselves but fate decided to intervene. Oh well. I’ve been to new places, watched more films of my liking, listened to unknown artists, wrote poems on love, met different types of people (and some became my friends), learned more about my demands, aspirations, and necessities, and discovered the pessimistic side of me which was sad. Not to mention my heart bursting with feelings it never knew existed.
It seems like everything turned out well and I felt like I needed to go through whatever happened before in order for me to continue living. I’ve seen the glimpse of my dark side and it’s not pleasing, but I’m proud that I was able to keep my head and be back on my usual strange self. The one that watches thrillers, reads romance, and thinks mermaids are real. The usual strange her made better.
We found ourselves constantly shedding tears for reasons we are not even aware of. For circumstances we cannot control. For people who are there but we do not know. For a love that will not grow.
It seems to me that our tears are the people we hate to see in a party. They are not invited, but they come anyway.