In a room full of people, she’d still choose you.
That’s how you lose her.
She drinks to remember and smokes to forget. In the still of the night, she doesn’t remember the goodness of your heart or the creases that appear even when you’re not smiling.
That’s how you lose her.
Like chasing a lost breath you couldn’t trap. Like searching for a sliver of the reflection of the moon you couldn’t bottle. Like photographing a faint smoke ring you couldn’t quite see.
That’s how you lose her.
Before the morning sun, she creeps out of your bed. Before the last dance, she slips into the night. Before you break her heart, she hollows herself out.
That’s how you lose her.
When you reach out for the comfort she gives and you can’t have a grip on it anymore, you’ll feel the shards she has felt for a long time coming. When you anticipate her texts of cheap jokes to make your day and you get nothing, you’ll feel the aching numb that has echoed within her. When you call her name and don’t hear a smile, you’ll experience the deafening silence in ten folds, like she has.
That’s how you lose her.
“You’re not easy to forget. When I see you walk towards me from a distance, my heart races and I feel it beating hard and fast against my rib cage. It’s not just the beauty that makes me shiver. It’s the knowledge that I’ll fall for that twinkle in your eye and try my hardest to hear you laugh. I’ll bend over backwards so you don’t have to. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. Then you would know that I’m not crazy.”
Wring me free of senseless reminders and certain flash memories. Puncture these recurring thoughts and leave these weightless anchors behind. Envelope the now’s with an earlier memory recalled and speak to the heart with a binding conviction.
And above all, choose the same love everyday.
Come a little closer. Make music, make magic. Let’s dance to nothing and take the night after. We’ll have our favorites and then some. Maybe something will illuminate the way. Maybe I’ll get to know you all over again. So take away the brokenness and store it someplace safe. It’s a fragment of the if only’s. We don’t need it to sleep easy. We don’t need it at all. But one day when it turns to ash, I want to say we could have had it all.
He will make your days beautiful and your nights perfect. He is the calm and also the storm. At times, he may forget. Maybe for once, he’ll slip up in a major way. But you know his heart and it quickens to a familiar beat of many fond things. Still, he makes you beautiful.
Let’s carelessly float on our backs till the weekends beckon.
You know how you strayed too far from your spot in the park?
Maybe that’s why 4s should go with 4s and leave the 8s to play with the 8s in the sandbox.
I’ll find you. Don’t worry. Just be on your own and I’ll find you. – Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book
Those minutes before you wilt into the night are the best reels of you. You recall the niceties, you remember the words you wished you said and your tactile memory doesn’t forget tracing skin.
They say it’s supposed to be difficult. You come undone when you have no reserves left. It’s as though you forgot how to breathe easy or even at all. You will be bared to the bones and hollowed out from carving and caving. You work at consistency and (try to) exceed expectations on an incline. Basically, it’s a fool’s errand.
But you dip your toes into the dating pool and you find yourself rewarded in the little things too; he chooses to be as invested and somewhat delirious too. He too comes undone. He goes the extra mile each time. He can hardly catch his breath, but he works at it without a day off. He reaches out to you when you clam up. He chooses to be silent when you have no need for words. He wants to end the week with you. He chooses to start his day with you. He affirms when you least expect it. He tries. Every. Damn. Day.
And that is the very standstill that lulls you to sleep easy each night. “Two fools.”
Someone who kisses you even when you don’t feel pretty enough in your own skin is more than you deserve.
You can be addicted to a certain kind of busyness. It’s as though the stars know. You lie on your back, half defeated and send smoke signals into the dull skies. You don’t need to hear a comfort or get affirmation. You’re more than enough for two, even if he doesn’t think so. It’s a battle against what you know and what you fear. That busyness keeps you buzzing. But there’s a warm victory brewing and that will lull you to sleep past the terrors and the worries.
A new chapter has supposedly unfolded, yet there’s an anchoring feeling that we’re stuck in the old, plainly wallowing at ground zero. But what’s wrong with having nothing yet everything at the same time? The nagging persists as contentment begins to wane each passing day. Can we shelve the lofty ideals aside and continue driftwood status?
There are the things you want to say most, but you’re afraid that you are left stark naked and bruised. Maybe it’ll die with you. Let’s hope it does.
There’s nothing August can bring that will surprise this stoned heart.
What I want in life doesn’t necessarily have to equate to what you have to give.
What I’d like to have in life, for a day or two in the year, are waking up to (imperfect) calligraphy of quotes that reminded you of me, being greeted by flowers for breakfast, dancing under the stars while sipping on our favourite poison, having breakfast for dinner and dinner for lunch, floating on our backs, and the like.
The anticipation of raw emotions makes good bearings. Steadfast longing wasn’t built in a day, or even by mere words. When you amplify your heart through the little things, that’s when I stop my selfish wantings.
I’m interested in your genuine interests, even if it makes us uncomfortable to no end. Being uncomfortably happy is really the ascent beyond planning and hoping. I cannot wait to try.
We are ruminative thinkers–or so I’d like to think. There’s a humming joy even when the busyness mutes the little wins throughout the day. Yet we know that the candle burns at both ends with me and like clockwork, it cascades down to petty fumes and misheard tales to spark the tinder of irrational things. Then when the ashes settle, I take a step back to watch the good times dance across the skies, listen to the familiar tunes that are weaved into the winds and wisps, and play the tapes of retrospect–outside the looking glass.
It’s when you’re detached that you’re the most sober. You don’t get drunk on promises, you don’t OD on precedents and you sure as hell won’t fall for words that make you gravitate towards self-deprecation.
Can I axe out of this?
I am, essentially, a knot of knots. I want to unravel at the idea of a becoming. As lofty as ideals go, I’m a wisp of happenstance and concerted efforts. There’s no order of things, as there is no you at the beginning.
John Mayer’s Waiting on The Day is a hug in the dark of the night.
Carelessly you fall into the crevices that you built walls around.
Carelessly you slip into looped REM sleep and never want to wake.
Carelessly you find less reasonings and go with spontaneity.
Carelessly you catch yourself being more than yourself and being totally okay with that.
To expect or to want is to set yourself up for the great tragedy. Anticipation makes great company, but nightfall creeps by painfully fast and at the same time, painfully slow. The only insurance you have is the safety net that will cushion the unexpected curveballs, the numbing times and the in between’s.
But with all the padded fears and armory, how do you inch forward? How do you make good on hopes of stability and consistent contentment–albeit the possible landslide? How do you move from a pleasant spot under the shade to the other side?
For the first time in a long time, things are going swimmingly well–in many aspects. Now that’s where the anxiety attacks lurk and where insecurities wake. The cue for the rumble would be the incompatibility of change beyond compromise. What else can mules do?
Routines have a odd sense of humour; you condition yourself to check off daily tasks and by and by, you name them chores. And before you know it, you call them on first name basis in hopes to gain some comfort in the familiar (and mundane).
Then you go through the motions and be that person everyone needs you to be. Slowly you forget what it’s like to laugh at the silly things, to be at places that doesn’t make you feel awkward, to dance with two left feet, to snack on whatever whenever you want, to sing on the streets and in the rain… Slowly these chores determine your waking hours. But that mustn’t define you.
You are more than a sunrise. You’re more than a rolling storm. You’re an entity of capabilities, preferences, experience and compassion. Love endlessly, they say. Love wholly, I know. If we were hardwired to function in necessity, then I say pull the plug.
What am I to do with those eyes / look at what you’ve done to my pride
Ahh. Trent Dabbs saves my week, again. It takes countless playlists on shuffle to find an artiste that strikes a chord with this monsoon junk.
Last night, I slingshot my way into a good place where I defied the gravity of sunken and sullen. While it is an undecidedly pretty look to be hollowed, I’m trying to find the beauty in the void. The possibility of filling that space with new-found joys, no more suppressed laughs and wild abandonment makes the weeks ahead a little brighter, a little easier and a little more hopeful.
I want to disappear into skin and bones. I want an illogical lifetime of answers to questions I didn’t know I would ask.
Tinkerbell: You know that place between sleep and awake? That place where you still remember dreaming?
Tinkerbell: That’s where I’ll always love you… Peter Pan. That’s where I’ll be waiting.
The penchant for affogato is as natural as my taste for the bittersweet symphony in things. You can’t cheat on the espresso flavour as you can with sachets of instant brew and you can definitely not skimp on vanilla beans for this treat. As strong flavored as it might be, if done right, life is made alright again–even for that tiny window of time.
The year is ending and the retrospective mood is setting in. To right the wrongs or to progress with a chip on the shoulder? If life is about picking up the pieces then who’s to see what’s charging ahead? I’ve so many oxymoronic questions and I really do want to pick at brains and answers over affogatos.
From Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl:
For several years, I had been bored. Not a whining, restless child’s boredom (although I was not above that) but a dense, blanketing malaise. It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn’t immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I’ve literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script.
It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters.
And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls.
It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else.
I would have done anything to feel real again.
I’ve been taking forever to complete this read, not because it’s bad or complex, but simply because I’m running on borrowed time. These days, I lose myself to the work pile, fall off during text conversations, trip over words and lay off social plans in a fervent bid to scale the expectations imposed. I’m dancing to my own tune again.
This book, James Bay playlist and flaming jäger bombs could not be more timely.
…you’re right beside but so distant at the same time.
What can I do to make you see that my thoughts are mine and my time is yours?