For Last Words

 

The last words I remember still echo in my head at night. She was never one to say a reckless word. I know ’cause I always listened. I saw past layers of her carefully-chosen words, beyond her deafening silences, and I knew.

Sometimes, I would be sitting against her, looking into her eyes while she talks, and I would get that feeling that it is the first time ever I hear someone talk; she would say words as dark as her hair, words that had no meaning to me until her lips met mine and gave them many. And I knew.

The last words you said are always the same, but it’s how I remember it that is different; of all the words that you said and the ones you didn’t, your last words were the ones I couldn’t make sense of. I never knew.

The same words that I so much loved wrecked me in the end. I always knew.

 

A Gift from Morpheus

Minutes had turned to hours before I was able to fall asleep, but these hours in my dark room were overshadowed by a certain feeling of longing. I shut my eyes and let sleep engulf me, trying to put an end to the feeling, the hours; but it was no end.

The feeling, it seems, had seeped into my sleep. Nevertheless, Morpheus did me a kindness: my longing was satisfied in an astonishing dream. And while the memory of the dream had faded fast just after I woke up, the satisfaction lasted nonetheless.

It is just a dream after all. But maybe its significance lies in its outcome.

 

The Climb Is Real

Between bits of intense emotions lies a cold predominant feeling. It is quite impossible to determine its source or ascertain the cause of its existence, but it was there, growing, rising and momentarily seen through flashes of light induced by the little triggers. And now, it’s stronger than ever.

This feeling resembles a wall so high, blocking any attempt to touch and connect with what’s beyond it; and what’s beyond it, is everything… and nothing. Because maybe the wall doesn’t exist; it is not real save in your mind: you created it to make sense of this listless feeling.

Where you stand, on your side of the wall, there’s comfort; it is safe. However, the nocturnal air is anxious, and you’re thinking about the wall and what’s beyond it. The thoughts, they turn your comfort into restlessness, they yield a new lone thought: the answer lies in climbing the wall. It would be risky, not always comfortable, but it would also make you feel alive. So you climb the wall and hope for the best.

The wall may not be real but the climb is. The climb is real. And it is, in a sense, a path to new opportunities, good and bad, to everything.

Winter

What we are is no longer consistent; we keep changing and starting anew. You’re like a novel winter that I’ve never known. I struggle with the difficulty that comes with embracing you, and cold nostalgia chills me to the bone.

What we shared remains untouched, for it is pure and beautiful in all senses. But we change. Your November rain left me awash; I tried to understand. You say I became the song you loved but got tired of listening to. The words are now empty, and all the meanings lost their charm. But you’re trying to understand and embrace.

I’m changing the words, and I will learn to swim through your rains.

Possibilities of Different Colors

adr

The empty canvas or the iridescent; what we choose to show is perceived subjectively, and without the proper explanation, one perception may render my empty canvas something it is not. An explanation is a limit, however. To one person, it is a unique complexity; to another, it is a simple virtuosity. But all the possibilities form an ulterior beauty: it’s never the same for each and every person.

There are numerous days in which I’m an empty canvas, and an explanation is demanded; I’m not good with explanations. I no longer have the energy to provide them. And the possibilities, in this instance, terrify those who demand the explanation. They see something they don’t understand… and they are terrified and distressed. Can you blame them?

It is merely a conflict; a conflict of colors and no colors at all. How do you perceive those who choose colors and those who choose none?!

Whether I am the empty canvas or the iridescent one, I, with all my heart, and all my soul, need to be both; to be every color and no color at all. 

It is essential to be subject to all possibilities, to be limitless; with no explanation. Alone, I choose to be dark blue. With you, I chose to be lime green. And with them, I was colorless.

Past the Oceans

I’ve always had the urge to travel, to go somewhere far. The urge used to whisper softly in my ears, but now it is screaming. I need to go past thousand of oceans and seas and beyond. I want to inhale new worlds and exhale the worlds I’ve known.

The loathsome city will be left behind. The devilish people will not be remembered. And the nights with the moon shall not find me sorrowful again. The promise of novel souls to meet, different places to see, and soft air to breathe is a breathtaking one. But most importantly, it is a promise of finding oneself again; after the gruesome loss caused by living and interacting with people without passion, compassion, or open-mindedness.

It’s making my heart uneasy, knowing that there are marvelous places I’ve not yet seen, dandy books I’ve not yet read, and amazing people I’ve not yet met. Yet.

A long journey it is going to be; and despite loving solitude, I think about company. Having someone I love with me is a fascinating possibility. Wanderlust supplemented by love is but the ultimate sanctuary.

My story is just unfolding, and I can’t wait for the journey to begin.

Nothingness

When I write these words, when I let you have a glimpse of something unknown; something unknown to me, but living within my mind, my heart. It is not because I want you to understand or relate but, rather, because I have to get it out. What is it? It is a dark, overwhelming, excruciating inability to feel anything. It is addictive, it is destructively empowering, and it is arcane.

A myriad of experiences impacted me. I became intoxicated with pathological thought; like a blurry, disturbed lake water as someone has dropped a rock into. With violent ripples forming on the surface, the reflection on the water becomes distorted, and unlike normal water, the ripples never disappeared with time, and the water never became still and clear again. I was forever blurry, and the distortion everlasting.

But I do forget sometimes; I forget what it is like. Forgetting is a temporary sanctuary. And I do hope sometimes; I hope that someday something or someone will make that sanctuary a permanent one.