I explore the shores barefoot whenever hurricane recedes back, for I'm no more afraid of drowning or tossing in the winds raging high, but I fear of the breezes oozing out from smoke of cigar trying to make me breathless with every sigh.
I dwell in galaxies as a vagabond and trace constellations of reveries, for falling in black hole no more frightens me nor does falling asleep forever, but I'm afraid of walking on empty streets where meteors fail to shower luminance and unheard screams and vague tales are buried under streetlights of darkness for ever.
I outlive transpirations of life and decipher meaning out of epiphanies, for death no more scares me instead it stuns my lost spirit, but I'm afraid of living everyday with a fear of dying someday, for each pessimistic thought is another graveyard on my way.
Demons sheltering within my brains flaunt a tent of cobwebs, and what I do is feed them poetries for I'm not afraid of devils hallucinating, but I'm afraid of those nightmares which eat my heartbreaks and solace served on the maple leaf of eulogies.
After swotting nursery rhymes I sailed my boat over the waves of numbers for I'm not afraid of standing on shorelines guarding the shores of algorithms, but I'm afraid of nightmares which spill reality into fractions, where gender is the divergence and justice is bleakly evanescent. ~Purva
they have every right to call her delusional. because isn't that true? you come home with your feet slacked into the wooden floor without remorse of yesterday's becoming. and she's wearied, jagged, and she wore not her compassion on her sleeves but the dirt under those nails spoke the depth of the ground she was once buried in instead.
is no longer a pronoun that objectifies another. nor does it feel like a proper noun that qualifies one particular thing. ' , in itself, masked to portray a character in the periphery of somebody else's story, yet a protagonist in its own too. she tries to commit for more than half of a , a and an . but she's not enough to become somebody more than she already is. and you know it.
her mom wouldn't recognize her, in a distinct dress and unwashed sneakers. ' , and yet you still speak in behalf of the mirror who screams the same when the tears don't refuse to fall this time. i don't even know who i am, a and a , and an enemy who overthinks all the same. ? you worry of tomorrow, and she's uncertain of today. yesterday, i was alone and i'm yet to be buried on my own.
it was never quite an easy thing to fully understand, this concept of vastness. the art of lying down on the bare grass, feet crossed to remember all the ties you've been through, and the sky that breathes a zillion miles away in this infinite amount of space.
"the earth looks amazing from here. you can't see any of the dust." -cooper (Interstellar)
i remember how much my dad told me about snow. he loves the idea, he said. "if it weren't for the frostbite, i would pick the coldest of it barehanded," but he couldn't fathom that notion of resisting the sedative nonetheless. like , painstakingly laid out to hold onto life and this lifetime on the open with people as coins, and time as cords. we tie them as pendulums, back and forth they go like raindrops racing but never seeming to reach the puddles on the end.
people don't leave themselves to suffocate in this empty space. some of us are still learning how to breathe, yet the air strangles our throats in the middle of our journey back to our spaceships. survival is at one's fate too. might've been inevitable but never a mistake.
maybe we're all just each other's constant, you know. cascades of fateful wonders amidst the skies and the things that keep us from becoming and refusing. we pull ourselves together and intact, and it diminishes the void clasped in between the trees and the stars they term hearth.
"time is relative, okay? it can stretch and it can squeeze, but it can't run backwards. just can't. the only thing that can move across dimensions, like time, is gravity." -dr. amelia brand (Interstellar)
the sky has a language i don't understand. sometimes, it grips me two by two in every minute under the dynamic rain. its silence, overcasting a thousand silhouettes of leaves moving and branches swaying, and i cannot find the essence of the nonlinguistic smell of mud when the rest of space falls quietly above the clouds.
i can sense phobias way before it gives me goosebumps, years back to when knowing leaves and glass don't give much of a difference. like how much they say we're afraid of the thought of falling and oblivion instead of heights and darkness. but maybe you can fear the stars without being scared of their light, i suppose.
you burn in campfires nevertheless, yet celestial bodies justify the heat.
but it's beautiful, still. how it engulfs you, and in pain, you gratify the understanding of worth. i, as a pronoun, is subjective to change. yet maybe the sky, in the least, holds up infinite miles of empty space, a part of you in a nonfuel solitary amidst your thoughts and the void that lingers.
"i, a singular proper noun, would go on, if always in a conditional tense." -john green
Some days I want to write about beautiful things in rose-scented words shimmering with pretty metaphors. But it's funny how I always end up stabbing the blank sheets with the words straight from my core, flexing what's bottled up inside in black and white honesty.
From a distance, they look ugly with scars of different shapes and sizes mimicking heartbreaks from then and now. Upon closer inspection, they magnify the strength I once had, reminding me of the times I defied death (heartbreak) even if it looks a lot more like me now.
Truth be told, you don't die from a mere heartbreak. It does more than that. Much more that sometimes, it isn't surprising when it completely turns someone into a totally different human, he himself doesn't even recognize and like. I guess it's worse than dying. When you're still breathing but has long been dead inside.
don't you find it a bit sad, tying your shoelaces into ribbons that don't wrap presents under the same holiday tree. for you were used to those lights flickering way much, not noticing that the stars shine the same too. even brighter, i guess.
hats off to those whose fingers never get entangled whenever they decide to tie their sneakers. just to end up loose the moment they step on the ground, grass intertwined amidst the hollows in the soles of their feet. even footprints leave holes and orifices that give way for earthworms to live in a minute's notice.
we're all the same shards each from a different glass, confusing every little thing into something worthwhile. because isn't it supposed to be that way? or maybe there's just a few of us left who still find fallen leaves more amusing than specks of gold priced a bit higher than its actual worth. for we break ourselves only to find out that one cannot fix oneself unless it's already been broken.