Unknown

145.

They refer to it as the call of the void.

It is the feeling that slips in while standing at the edge of a cliff, or driving a car. There goes the mind that wonders, what if this body stumbles over a loose root, what happens if the foot brake is faulty in its functioning. What if one day, standing by the tarmac pavement, there is a crazed vehicle steering dangerous and there is no want to move aside.

There is no desire to let go of life itself, yet the hand is not clutched tight to save it as well. The emptiness that the darkness of nothing tries to fill. Continue running, this mind.

What if the glass walkway shatters at the act of the maniac. How long will one fall?

Hold a knife innocent chopping the onions, when it could be elsewhere far more sinister.

So many ways to go, but only one determines the end.

Everyone bleeds in red.

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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?

133.

My favourite memory might not even exist in your head.

A smile small and nearly impudent, the peculiar pinch of eyes while thinking deeply.

Slow gentle clap of hands when things go well.

Tremor of the ground turning into courageous steps.

This yell, childlike brimming delight, when it comes to the matters you care best.

I wonder, I truly wonder if we can ever know all of ourselves, if we are fragmented stardust particles gleaming in lives other than our own.

So maybe I am your mirror just as you are mine.

And oh, how I desire that you will continue to shine a brilliant bright.

105.

You say, that for a person so magical surely shooting stars would work their wishes for me.

I deny this a hundred times, yet I will embrace it as a truth if it will bring you back to me. This is what you do: without waiting to test the truth of my apparent character, you vanish into smokeless vapour.

Time drifts. I have taken dozens of dandelions by its roots and lain awake for 11:11s but you remain obscure to me. The sound of my breathing is too claustrophobic in this quiet.

Before you took to your leaving, I have expressed my affections: that to me you are a glowing ember, that I drew ever so closely to your brilliant being. You only smile and hope to be so, but tell me over and over to be realistic lest I am disappointed. I wonder now if I have piled upon your shoulders a burden overwhelming, that my feelings a net tangling the feet.

A lighthouse, this is what I will build as I wait for you. If I am to you a light, I will make this stand on a ground where the oceans of many meet. Day by day will I see myself on the edge, writing letters and throwing bottles of hope into the gulf.

If I am to wish a wish come true, let it be that one will come by your line of sight. Small as it is, may it rock your boat and set a wind in your sail to the shore where I stay.

You are a sailor, lost in your distant wandering and let my pieces be the north star that guides you home.

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.

91.

She dreamt of a stranger, his fractional smile a mere flicker before he disappeared over the building’s edge.

This wakes her up, filling her with irrational tension. A haunting peculiar for it is a place never seen before, with a faint touch of the ethereal.

Who are you, she quietly asks with an arm outstretched, but her words are simply mixing with oxygen.

Weeks go by, and it remains a sequence that slips in uninvited from time to time. The same wakefulness will capture her utmost attention, but there is no clue. Until one day, in the most ordinary of ways, she sees him in a street full of people. And mad is she, certainly, to have glimpsed a cordial curl of the mouth?

His gaze averts, and she pursues. Though foolish to endure without reason, she will not be deterred. They arrive on the rooftop, a scene startling alike. His foot leaning by the end of all that is.

She walks slowly, terribly afraid to see that moment. When she is but two steps away, his voice breaks.

Do you trust me? are the words uttered.

Take a deep breath. Nod of the head.

Close your eyes, he murmurs with a faint smile, and she does.

Hands curve themselves and then, the lightness of being. A scream. They are falling into gravity’s coarse arms. There is no comfort in the aforementioned thought.

He whispers against her ear, believe.

And believe, believe in facing the unknown courageously and this is when they fly upwards by the spread of his wings. Her eyes widen.

You’ve always been too afraid to face the end of your dream, he says with a gentle smile. And now you finally know.

47.

I’m not used to saying this aloud. I have a tendency to clam up and say nothing for a while. Sometimes, I find myself watching from a glass coffin, so forgive me if you try to reach in and return empty.

I’m not used to an unwavering command of attention. Too many times when I finally formulate the words I want to speak, it’s an empty street.

I’m not used to the fact that a pair of feet remain by me, even when I have a tendency to stutter, or hide nervousness in the intricate folds of an origami crane.

I’m not used to the idea that a person would wait in unbroken silence just so that I can whisper a single passing remark, catch ephemeral laughter in the fleeting wind.

I’m not used to making this confession, but I must admit that there is a permafrost in my heart that hurts, that I fear letting it thaw. To be warm is unusual and unusual is the unknowable. Both extremes scare me, the warm and the cold, let alone braving along this spectrum.

I’m not used to considering that I might choose to change, not only for you, but for myself. Yet one day I’ll lift my chin. Take a full account of the world above with confidence. And if you’re still here, be pleasantly and timely warned that this is uncharted territory—

I’ll look at you in the eyes.

26.

Hello, hello, dearest 2017, here you came in an astounding blink.

Just a few days shy, yet what have we here?

A journey over the seas, distanced from the many that I know. A day tomorrow that will bring the start of many things.

The shivers, do they come from the heart or do they stem from excitement?

I know not, but through new sights, frozen lakes, cold winds, self-made meals and the land of the light-haired, surely I will find something to bring home.

In my dreams? That’s where I meet you, you, you, and you.