Fear

167.

If you are looking for a sign, this is it.

You are so, so loved.

Even on the days that are filled with frightening empty and inconsolable despair.

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139.

Talk to me about your monster. Does it like to come out to play at night, or claw into your back when you’re not looking? Some monsters, they know how to smile.

Not everyone learns to stop looking for the monster under their bed. I promise not to laugh, if you are one of them. Some will live in the crevices of our souls for always. Face the mirror, who do you see.

Monsters. Why do I keep going on about them? I do, for they are tangible creatures that lurk in the cracks of one’s mind. Here’s a read that realises that.

Patrick Ness’ A Monster Calls is a read that has the ability to speak to the child in each of us. This I promise. It appears as a fancy children’s book, a piece of fiction inspired by Siobhan Dowd, but no. It is much more.

Depending on one’s definition, it can be considered as a horror story as reality has its many terrifying revelations. A monster in the night, a particular yew tree, uproots itself and meets Conor O’Malley. Initially frightened, he calms down upon recognising that it is not the same monster in his dreams.

This monster, the one that came walking at 12:07 will tell important stories, ones that will reveal the truth within the boy’s heart. Completed with beautiful illustrations, it is a written work that will take your heart away. It takes mine, a total surrender. I cannot say more lest I ruin it for the rest of you.

Talk to me about your monster. How tall does it stand, does it have wings or does it look like you and me. By the end of this read, you might want a monster to come calling for you.

138.

Achluophobia; a fear most horribly misnamed for it isn’t the fear of darkness that fixates one in their footsteps, but the absence of light that paralyses.

There is a vast difference between the fear of something and nothing, though some may not be able to tell. While darkness may be a common nemesis to most, it is wronged to the worst extent if one actually thought about the matter properly. For this absence means that something became nothing, and that a number diminished into a nix, and the absence of light would inadvertently equate to the end of a shining source of brilliance. So while the fear of something is extremely understandable, it would be absolutely humane to fear the unknown; of subjects above our petty perimeter of knowledge.

In a world in which we are unable to stand alone due to such undying uncertainties, it is for reasons like these that we have the shadows sewed to the bottom of our feet during the day and the heavenly spread that bewitches one’s mind during nightfall, hours in which the light does not exist. But one thing remains clear is that fear, be it of nothing, something or even everything — companionship played and will always play a colossal role. For in the midst of great disquiet, of doubt, it is there the presence of another would ease that emotion, even if it’s only for a little while. Albeit the fact that such a presence is only temporal, one is never left completely alone and unescorted in the dark.

For what other reason then should silver stars exist?

134.

An old piece demanding attention. I’ve given in.

An owlish stare belonged to a brunette standing by the tree. She was gazing at some who were holding their respective lanterns. Then, as if one had uttered a miserable excuse of a joke, they laughed uncontrollably before resuming their journey. Certainly they were going for the lantern festival. The frosh in the picturesque park eventually allowed a sigh to articulate.

Admittedly, she knew that if she wanted to go, she just would. The student wasn’t too particular when it pertained to company, and solitude would have been her first choice. Nevertheless, it would be evident for all to see that she wasn’t going to move. A part of her perpetually wondered as to why, oh why, that she continued being stubbornly stuck in the pages of yesterday and tomorrow simultaneously. It was ridiculous and repetitive to recognise that the past, albeit important, had its limits when one considered the present timeline. And the future was definitely a matter so terribly delicate, comparable to a fragile framework collapsing at the whim of a wind’s whisper. Preposterous. Stuck in her thoughts, then and there did a familiar explosion resound. The brunette looked toward the horizon and her eyes widened in wonderment.

Fireworks.

Works of fire.

How horrible that a childish play of words threatened a diminutive smile to surface. Just so horrible, because it was probable that this was another reason why she decided against attending. She often thought that inanimate things could represent a human’s want or need, example being a blanket picturing warmth.

So did fireworks. They were more than a rich person’s way of finding visual entertainment. It was definitely a bearer of definitions larger than the space they occupied in the night sky. In her eyes, they were symbols of interminable warmth and renewal, perhaps even resembling a burst of emotion. An incandescent flame that burned passionately, in ardent adoration and everything like that. Sappiness was not the issue at hand. The real one was this.

Maybe she had been afraid that if she had gone there, being under those lucent lights and burst of gleaming sparks, it would make the brunette find a part of herself that she never wanted to discover. A passion she would rather live without. Maybe there was the possibility that if there was a someone by her side, the adrenaline rush embedded within would play tricks on her mind, causing her to feel and think of things she rendered unnecessary.

Then she laughed, a tinkling chime that sounded musical until a seemingly choked voice marred the expression. The forming of a supposedly easy laugh at absurdity had ended with sadness. Maybe it was both, for the girl herself had no longer known if it had been laughter or tears after all. Nevertheless, whatever it had been, the vibrant explosion of colours were capable of inducing distraction, even if it was only finite in value. Deep down, she knew that it was so likely that she was shortchanging her own self for no appropriate reason.

This destructive display of artwork — had it always been this pretty?

129.

Why do people speak in the midst of a breaking?

Waiting for the boom of fireworks, the roar of a thunderclap

By the bedside of possible death, a wave of congratulations

 

Maybe this is it:

That humans have a softness for honesty

To see truth leave one’s trembling lips

To speak the unsayable because that makes it so incredible

 

Yet we fear consequence:

The rejection, the disgust, the ardent whispers turned into despicable shouting

 

We forget that consequence can also have a wellspring of affection:

The leaning of heads, an iron-grip hug, the removing of a dried leaf from one’s hair

 

We are animated dust kicking up a storm

Leaving sunshine and rain wherever we go

Footprints in the sand eventually swallowed by the mighty ocean

In spite of it all we aspire to be more than just this

 

We climb mountains, we search for new horizons

Finding for a place or someone reminding us to simply be

A map lost, and no place to return to

 

Yet one day, there will be a time when you will watch the sunrise reflected in their quiet eyes

Sleepy yawns gently tugging at the consciousness before a dangerous falling in

And when they ask why you have kept your eyes on them this is what you will say:

 

Once upon a time when no one knew

You defied the odds and became the neglected miracle in the dark

In a world filled with incalculable possibilities we are both here

I thank my God a thousand times for this incomparable moment

 

Blush they will, or turn away

Yet the sly sneak peek will show your shadow melting into theirs

This confession coming clear in spite of your speaking in the midst of a seashore breaking

 

Pick up a seashell, more than one

Build small emblems of devotion with driftwood and hard stones

Let them know, let them know, that even as you are playfully carving names in the ground

That their diminutive smile is a compass, mirthful laughter its tracks

A sign that there might be a home to go to

 

There is so much in a glance

Even as it lies wide open or a furtive sneak

There is so much more

125.

IMG_4859

A mental health awareness project much loved by yours truly, sufficient to include it on this paperless space.

Notice the circle, the perpetuation of repetition, madness and insanity, a downward spiral into unending ideas that would not satisfy.

In this city, its life thrives on prejudiced mentalities.

Crumple the list, a useless try at finding reason within these scattered words.

We and me, a constant battle of wills, the other invisible people in the mind are just as real.

Sea of hands clambering for control of the main body.

The crosshatched thought cloud, a small voice hoping for a heart that would love despite odds.

Yet words hurt like a knife and so, wilt from the inside.

The gun explodes against his head.

Strings desperate, give me a lead to reach the person who has gone.

It’s time to take off the rose-coloured glasses, won’t you open your eyes.

This origami crane I fold, a thousand I would to make a wish for you.

A collage made to gather voices, to speak up for mental illnesses as tangible.

99.

So much power in the act of writing, or so I choose to place my faith in. I have written letters for people with no faces and no names, crafting pieces for an unknown recipient. I do not think that I am foolish for trying something unreturned, for who knows if in these secret doings will someone find reason to hope again?

Leave a scattering on the car window, pages of old, table worn and other possible places. Run like the wind, don’t get caught or the magic spell may find itself undone.

In my timid heart I do fear that I may be playing with fire, but I will continue building and see if there is more than this fragile house of cards.

87.

Darkness of the mind, just an inkblot of poison fills the jar.

Undo the blinds, can you still see the faint sunshine that filters through.

Light and dark, unmatched playmates in shadowy playgrounds.

Run your hand along this length of rope or the metallic cool of a gun.

Will it be tonight, that the fingers will curl into the familiar hollow and pick up.

Will it be tonight, that the phone will be switched off and eyes shut tight.

Will it be tonight, that there will be a note left behind.

Please don’t let it be tonight, or any other night.

I’m here praying that you’ll live through these terrifying times.

Please hold on.

Don’t let your starlight eyes lose their glimmer in the dark.