Archive for August, 2012

My heavenly mess

Beautiful morning this has been. Bright, peaceful and quiet. Home has never been so inviting, so fresh with sunlight. So warm. I renewed my love to the couch for an hour or so, reading. Nothing is better than a good morning and a book to keep oneself in good company.

But I needed more, more than just a book. There was a tension that only painting could ease. Colours, yes! The smell of oil was so pungent, yet so soothing. Sedating. Once again, I parted with this world into my own.


I write, read and paint.
That’s how far I’ve been meaning to communicate with the world. For a month? A couple more? It’s taking a little bit longer maybe… Both my conscience and sub-conscience have finally reached an agreement; they seem to revel in my solitude.

Away, the winds of change carry myself. Further away, I elope; with a mind seeking rest and a heart though it has lost its remedy, now healing.

I settle in a parallel world I’ve established for no one but myself. Reserved. Soul safe from a life I quit, mind off from regret only to salvage remains of a heart now beating in a duplicate of a life.

Fragile, it beats. It echoes, louder; louder than the distortion of memories. Piercing. Yet it beats. Faster, in rage.

Soon it fades, forcefully, to a soul that strictly forbids reminiscing. Not now, better never. It fades, to a mind scraping off the hooks of the past. Evacuated, empty. Bleached clean.

It can’t be missed. For every time the thought is unleashed, the feeling escapes, spreads; parasitically. Remembrance drags you back into a clinging past, throwing hooks that rip right through the flesh of a barren heart. It will ache. It will rip the peaceful world you created apart. Unwelcomed, It will stay. Tangled, it will grow.

It can’t be missed. You cannot! You don’t have the right to. What for? You can’t. No, you can’t miss it.
It will only blow your world away. Mind is a mess, heart is a wreck, and soul is forsaken, too weak to fight. Such a feeling is an expense no longer afforded.

Away, I still am. Reveling in the strokes of my brush, dancing to the meanings words behold. Building up the pillars of a world I’ve escaped into, cherishing mind, heart, and soul.

“I kill youuuuu”

Salzburg – Austria

“Your must learn to stand up for yourself
Cause I can’t always be around”
He says…

Yes, I did learn to stand up for myself. I did learn to fight; so heartlessly, just like you were.  You’ve taught me the hard way; and I did learn. For that, I thank you.

You were never around, yet your absence molded me into who I am right now.  Strong. Fearless and independent… Empty? Ignorant?

If only …
If only you knew how much the tiniest, simplest of things that you never do mattered to me…
If only you knew I craved you. I needed you.

If only… If only you knew…

Too late; I need not long for that anymore.
Too late, you are far beyond gone.

Hate is a burden I cannot carry. Love is an expense I can no longer afford.

I slip into my diary entries every now and then. This time, I slipped into this:


… What is really so exciting about beginnings is actually the end! It’s why I start, where I aim… and where I eventually start off one more time of another uncertain beginning. Endings are just as good; if not even better. And it’s always up to you to mark such points on your timeline; in between is a climax you’re starring at…

The best part: it’s never what you think it is; it’s never the right point to mark and label. And you only realize that a while  later… Only when you decide to look back on your time line. Flashback…

It only makes sense in time.


Lights off. Darkness leaks into the room. Blackness, but for  feeble light penetrating through the gloom from a candle eaten away by its own dying fires. The smoke tickles my nose; the smell revives something in me. A memory? A desire? Lust? I don’t know, but a mess I buried deep down within myself is evoked.

I reach for the drawer. My fingers slide over the stacked boxes until I get my hands on my ink set, drag it out. My eyes blinded by darkness, yet my mind sees, my mind knows the exact position of things, inch by inch, as far as my wooden desk stretches. I reach for a fountain pen, then my diary. I flip a few pages; the memories smell old.

Ahh, a new fresh page. Inviting.

I fill up my pen. Deep blue ink; royal blue. Quiet; the night grows as darkness and fire compete. Ink drips over the edge of my page; I set the edge to the beginning of the line… and wait, as though awaiting my thoughts to fire it’s start gun. My heart weeps memories; old and new, of past and present, and it’s always hard to pick which one goes first. They’re all ache as much really.

Soon I give up on the chronology of my memoirs, I begin to write. I detach my mind, giving my heart the lead this time. Within these lines is where it gets to speak, to feel. Without fear, without the restraint of consequence. Just mere feelings loitering here and there, dancing on the flames of a burning candle. I don’t know why I lit up in the first place, but neon lights are too too detaching; fire has its ambiance…

And it unconsciously soothes me; seeing something burn just as much as the inside of me…

I come to life, so I write, to remind myself that a part of me can still feel; a part of me is buried alive. I write, before my mind shuts my heart up. I write, as the candle eats itself away. I write, so helplessly; so pathetically, so hectically.
I write and write and write… I soon realize my feelings have turned into a dogma, and soon enough I run out of feelings. Such a realization activates a relatively anti-sentimental mind. My heart flees. Expressions fade into darkness, words escape me. Silence. I blow an angry breath that kills the fire. My corpse fall back into sleep.

Once again, desensitized.

Words flow best in darkness…