Posts Tagged ‘Writing’

In Appreciation, I write, not in remorse.

To and for a time so timeless,

Sentences, scattered in structure, disrupted in its sense of sense, yet humbled by the feeling that triggered the urge to write in the first place.

I write,

Till I’m drained empty.

Till the words squeeze into sour juices of meanings.

I write and write,

Till the heaviness is gone, shedding layers of me within layers of paper, squirting blue ink of my royal blood from a loaded pen… That still drips

And I still write,

Dispersed letters, grouped only to be distorted upon a thought, that reforms then dissolves…

Into canals of clogged memory lanes, superimposing timelines from different times.

And the pen still drips,

What lips failed to speak, of the relics a crippled heart keeps…

Onto papers,

That never really existed.



As I share my sacred moment of sheer inspiration, I am transposed into a different world, sucked into a whirlpool of vibrant yet subtle sentiments.

Let the words flow…

upon the ambiance of Waltz.

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…