These are the things that keep me busy these days. ♡
Recent book finds.
The streets are dark and cold. I rub my hands, trying to create heat. I could feel the callouses from my fingers peel from the friction. The light from the lamppost flickers, steadies for a second, and for a long moment, finally dies, taking the long shadows of the dented trash bins and road signage with it. The moon is cut in two: the other half casting a luminous blue, the other half nowhere to be found. The scattered trees, foreign against the backdrop of metal and glass rising to the sky, mutter a weary sigh of regress. A few blocks away, I could see the light from a local coffee shop so warm and inviting. I walk towards it as I light my cigarette; my lungs scream of relief and despair. With every drag, I could hear my lungs fail with raspy clicks like the sound of the lighter’s flint rubbing the trigger. I coughed—a stabbing pain hit my lungs as if ivies were growing inside, occupying the hollow expanse, leaving no space for air to settle.
I crush my half-consumed cigarette to the ground as I arrive at the coffee shop. There were only a few people. I order my usual cup of hot machiatto and found myself a chair at the far end of the smoking area, away from sight. I open the lid of the cup and stared at the froth and the thick lines of caramel placed on top. I could see smoke rise from the tall paper cup. Enticed by the smell, I took a small sip. It burned my tongue. I like how the warmth settles from my throat to my tummy.
I light another cigarette, only this time, I’m going to consume it to the butt. Nicotine calms me. I take my book from my bag and started shuffling through the pages where I left of, feeling the crisp, brown softness of the paper, and started reading. I was engrossed; I became oblivious to the people and the steady drone of the cars passing by the secluded street, oblivious to the laughs of the teenage kids inside the shop and the stars incessant twinkling.
“Jack Kerouac. I don’t see a lot of people reading that.” A stranger pulls a chair from my table and sits without permission.
(to be continued)
Stephen King and brewed coffee for breakfast. Good morning!
Someone gave me 21 books for my 21st birthday. Thank you, love.
- Me: I'm suffering from a relapse.
- You: Have you been taking drugs again?
- Me: No, man. I'm never going back there.
- You: I told you alcohol's not gonna do anything good to you.
- Me: Dude, I've been sober for months now.
- You: What then?
- Me: You.
I want to write again, but it seems that I have forgotten how. Even words betray me now. My papers are creased and my pen has lost its ink. Adieu.
You were five, I was seven and the world was much simpler then.
The seams of your dress were laced with the thinnest of pink, hanging just above your knees, whistling with the wind. Your eyes were sparkling with innocence as you watch the dragonflies hop from the cold tarmac floor, twitching their tails and preparing their thin, filmy wings in mid-flight. Those eyes, I much admired, were pitch-black, almost featureless under the rabid glare of the sun. The circles inside them were almost equal in hue—just a mere glance would make the hair at the back of my neck stand straight. I always thought you could read right through me with those eyes, that is why I never had the courage to speak to you. You moved with such surreality—such feline graces—you’ve inherited from your mother. It was a grace of a dancer in action. Your smile was the most beautiful I’ve ever seen (next to my mom’s, of course). Your skin was of the desert sand, sandy brown, ocher bland. Your bare feet was caught with mud, but you didn’t care that much. You were free. You cared less. Your beauty was something I cannot quite explain. With you, I’m caught speechless.
I fell in love with you, but then again, you were five and I was seven. I loved the trees and the clouds and the toys which dad gave me, and I loved my mom’s cooking, too. You were five, I was seven, and we didn’t know much about the world then.
In just a few, wilting hours, yet another year will come to an end—365 (and a quarter) days of bittersweet memories ablaze by decisions both tactless and wise. 2012 has been a year of reeling excitement for me—a year of soaring and breaking traditions, not to mention a few little trips and misses that got me a little bit out of track. As this year ends, I can’t help but to look back at what transpired in my life the past months—memories and fragile emotions that I’ve kept inside me for a long, long time.
To the new people I’ve met, to the people I’ve lost, to the people that remained through the years, to the people that made and broke me, I thank you. To the memories that pained me, I leave them all in a tiny box labelled with sadness, never to be opened again. To the reeling memories that made me happy, I’d keep them all safely tucked in my heart. I must admit, 2012 was a little harsh to me, but I regret nothing. What’s important is that I’ve learned through all my mistakes. I am stronger now, I am more learned. With that, I’d like to bid 2012 a warm good-bye.
Bring on the booze and the fireworks, will you? Let’s celebrate! Hey, we just survived yet another apocalyptic event, I think that’s reason enough to enjoy! I give my curt good-bye to 2012 as I raise my glass for 2013! Happy New Year, you guys! Cheers!
We are what we write, aren’t we?
We are the darkness that lurks in the shadows of our room, or the light that seeps inside our windows as the sun rises. We are the sound of the tranquil seas and the roar of thunder as the rain pours. We are the birds that pierces the sky, and the fluffy, white clouds.We are the heart that shatters into a million brittle pieces, aren’t we? We are the pounding in our heads as the world closes in. We are the blood in every paper cuts, or the tears that comes after it. We are the baby who cries in the evening, and cries some more in the morning. We are the soft kisses and warm embraces. We are the passion that soars high, and the hate that runs deep.We are the mere ink that flows through these papers, drowning its purity in a pool of black. We are the folds on our sheets, or the dried tears on our pillows, aren’t we? We are the smell of coffee, and the nicotine that runs through our lungs.
Behind this wall of words and letters, we are but figments of our own delusions. We spill this ink on paper and wait for it consume us. We are trapped inside our own worlds—of words floating everywhere. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Soon, we’ll grow roots, and words will sprout from our pores and from our fingers. Our eyes will bleed letters and our mouth will puke words. Our bones will shatter from the weight of our delusions. We are what we write, aren’t we?