When birds escaped my city in awe, I began to imagine living in revere. So I pen soft sonnets every night, just to remind me that forever exists. You're every shade of reverie I starve, even if this sordid earth moved shaking, I know you'd carry water for me.
You are like the wind, nowhere in sight yet so crucial. I can see you amidst the clouds of uncertainty, rising like a golden sun, radiating your grace.I'm sunkissed and verklempt, trying to chase your equanimous soul before the sun dips below the horizon, just like having the last gasp of beauty before the death of the day.Your name rests between my lips like a prayer, if my susurrus sounds reach your ear, they would be spelling I love you. My soul is riddled with toska, the sadness of longing for something that I cannot have yet I cannot live without. Nothing ever ends poetically right? I would rather weave poems with your leftover memories than to forget you in the abyss of time. As the night descends, memories of you surround me like a warm blanket protecting me from the shivers of a frozen heart. If the crescent moon ever calls out your name, remember I have told the moon stories about us. I gulped the night and chewed your fragrance, waiting for the dawn to break as mornings bring endless battlefields. You're like a kid on the carousel ride, playing merry go rounds in my war field. I'll wear my love like an armour, come what may, I'm ready to get wounded, again and again, but remember my love, it's only for you!
hazy when it rains i look out of a window stretching my palms towards freedom pretending that there is more to this world while a subdued part of me wonders what more can i ever see through the only window i am allowed to keep
fuzzy when it's cold my window is frosted with facades and faint cries of everything that is protecting me from what lives outside my room that my crutches cannot distinguish with two clicks on the ground on the other side of the only window i am allowed to keep
bright in summer, i feel heat i try to look outside but my eyes betray me as i fail to make sense of the beauty that i've only drawn in pictures that are now paper planes, flying i scratch the window, try to break through for myself a view that is for once not adulterated with the descriptions from the eyes of everyone else who's been luckier than me to see the world, unfiltered but what view do i see when my eyes physically prevent me from distinguishing between sky blue and tree green as i sit behind a dead black screen realising, that to me, the world shall always look alike, through whatever window i'm allowed to keep.
"once, with my dad." the leaves were rustling at every step as we headed for the river beside the woodland rays. the daylight wasn't particularly bright nor warm. just enough to spill a sight suitable to see the crooked pathway.
"he told me that there are seasons where the fishes are abundant," i continued. "and you don't need any assistive gear during those."
"assistive gear," he repeated. "like spears and arrows, axes and daggers?"
"crossbows and maces," i corrected. he smiled.
the peak of autumn meant the presence of color schemes. usually, they'd range between red and orange, yellow and brown. when the leaves overlap upon each other, as though a smaller tree grew under a slightly bigger one, they'd give off a faded golden streak of gleam like the sun's rays. i hadn't been sure if i ever told him yet, but if you put your palm precisely under that line of light beneath the leaves shone by the sun, you are, by which, a witness of a heavenly body grasping hands with a portion of this world. it's like holding a part of the sky, a similar thing made from the same element the rain gives you.
"how about you?" i asked.
"what about me?"
"have you been to a camping trip like this before?" i remembered the first time going to the mountains with my family. although the view was beautiful, exceptional, exciting, insert all other adjectives that describe the stars the same, i couldn't stop thinking about how the ground was continuously uphill. and the more we stepped, the higher we were. what exactly was the probability of us falling into this den of bushes that was actually a forest of trees below, and the number of broken bones limited to survive the way back home? yes, the journey was memorable, i could say. but breathtaking was a more fitting term to me. both literally and its figure of speech.
"i've been to high places before, and those sceneries," he looked upfront. "definitely are one of its kind. but huge forests? not as of i can remember."
"you don't overlook everything, do you?"
"like snakes being around these branches or spiders on the tree trunks. worms under your shoes?" i looked at where we were stepping, the shades of leaves reflecting on ground. it reminded me of how john green described them. the sky being split looked like traces of cassiopeia.
"no," he replied. overthinking, it might've been my middle name but i always knew he wouldn't do such a thing. "but it's just like walking at a park, don't you think?" he continued. "a city or a town park, but with maces and crossbows as you say. so it should be like taking a stroll through the woods sixty five million years ago."
"definitely to not try and steal some fishes from their ancient rivers," i uttered. we laughed.
the flowing water sounded closer the further we went. the birds were chirping as well, but not too loud either. they were dispersed high enough to stay on branches of trees median in height. this forest was always closely intertwined in equidistant symmetries, and i always thought i was the complete opposite of it.
the river was already visible upfront. we stopped by the nearest tree as i tossed my backpack, and he placed his next to mine. i retied my shoelaces tighter as i focused on a creek that laid a little upfront. we headed there.
the flowing water wasn't as strong as i expected, which was a great thing, of course, because falling into the depth of that i-don't-know-what-in-the-world-lies-in-its-dark-oblivious void was probably not a good idea. rocks were sitting by its sides and across, some huge enough for its surfaces to remain untouched by the stream. my dad once advised that between these solid platforms laid the most vulnerable paths of prey. i leaped through a few of these spaces, a meter fall by its edge, and i was going first as he followed behind. we stopped at the one with the least strong current as i could see a few fishes already jumping alongside.
"salmon," he said from my back. i faced him.
"and catfishes." i could see their whiskers flashing droplets as another jumped by. we both bent down on the rocks we were at, the space between these platforms managing as our possible source of dinner.
"i'll try to catch it first?" i said as another one leaped by. he glanced at me then back to the flowing water.
"since they're slippery, i'll serve as the second bait."
i nodded in agreement. i wiped my hands on the sides of my shirt (wasn't anxiously sweating, was i?), prepping them closely on the little space this time. i looked upfront as a salmon, which i assumed was heading to our direction, rapidly curved itself for a jump. i raised my hands just in time to catch it, trying to grip its slimy skin. it slipped up and i grabbed hold of it again before it swiveled its body, leaping towards him. he moved fast enough to clasp its body, as they fell down the edge in the water below.
there was a quote i remembered that virginia woolf said in her book "to the lighthouse." it went as, "so fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea." although he wasn't weightless and i knew not that he could (possibly, you know) fly, but he was like the wind virginia woolf described at that specific moment. not the clouds but the sails up on the sky, and not the sails but the clouds into these waters. and i couldn't tell if that were of any good at all.
he was glaring at me, a meter below, arms crossed with his hips down in the water, as drops of the river streamed on his forehead from his strands of wet hair. i could still see the movement of the surface as the fish hurried away from him.
"i, uh." i covered my mouth, trying to find the words at first, because i believed it was pretty much the most rude thing i could ever do to laugh at what in the world just happened. but i did, i laughed, a bit much i became teary. i looked back at him, expecting an eye roll or probably a punch or a slap (either of which i'd gladly accept), but as i did, he started laughing as well. i shook my head before kneeling down on the rock to offer him my hand.
"i'm so sorry," i said, wiping my eyes with my other hand. "i didn't think that would happen. i should've warned you that you might fall belo--" and before i could process my words, i was already beside him, drenched the same, after he took my hand and pulled it. he laughed and so did i, our voices echoing amidst the trees nearby and the sound of the flowing water.
i couldn't tell which part my head was remembering, which detail i couldn't tend to think. the ever-changing colors of light, splashes of autumn leaves' shadows falling and swaying by as they reflected on the surface of the water, or the way he was happy. i looked at him for a split second. sometimes, i whisper to God how beautiful life is, how infinite are the little things. we are tapestries, and we are astonishments of His marvelous wonder. but i glanced away just immediately as he faced me.
"i think," he said. "there are edible mushrooms we passed by earlier. we can have those for food instead." i laughed a little and nodded in reply.
the actual wind settled in, rippling the water as it did. i thought of the stars and the figures they lined we call as constellations, as if the waters don't show the same. at once, i wanted to say it out loud, how the river, this river, would take us back into the becoming of something that was beyond the lingual way of differentiating moments over photographs, something light and time couldn't capture in its exact. about how diane arbus said that "a picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know." and i knew in that moment that even if i could stick a camera under his nose, about how he was asking why i was smiling under my breath as we walked back to our bags, clothes wet and soaked, that i wanted to write my gratitude to green, woolf, arbus and more, for expressing things i myself failed to do so. that i wanted to freeze, in light and time, a genuine smile i hadn't seen yet. something i could hold to my palms, underneath the rain and the sun's rays. someday i pray for, someday i will.
With a touch of life, I started to look alive While I thought the world will welcome me I was abandoned and hated The dull smell of Zephyr affected my sight Colorful buds in my eyes became gray Everything I see turned faded black I hear voices in my head Perhaps the gossips about me.
With a touch of a warm hand, I started to look alive The morning breeze smelled like spring Vivid colors of nature bring a smile to my face The sound of birds serenaded my heart Slowly, I tasted the sweetness of life I don't want to just breathe every day I now choose to live.
Everything's a dream within a dream, at your hand's grasp yet seems far away, is everything an absolute illusion? or am I oblivious to the beauty of life? Everything that daunts me is to end up alone in life, yet I savour solitude than people who don't feel like home, a feeling of deja vu hits me when I revist those homes, but it's so cold and unwelcoming, so I chose to walk away. Everything seems to be a cloud of fog, hazy and blurred, what's the color of hope? It must be black, or I should be colour blind to not feel optimistic towards life. a pall of gloom descends, the dreams are fading, wearing a despondent look. Everything in life seems to be an act of coming to an end, I am obliged to live till my ashes meet the sea, but it seems I live more in my head than in real, I want someone to say this is all just a bad dream, a dream within a dream and this too shall pass.