Since then, I have lost my senses. Lead by sensibilities, I have wandered away too much. And if you look into the night and thought once of a year ago, even then, you won't even come close to the darkness I am in. If writing was not enough, I apologise. If paper was not enough, tear it into shreds. I no longer want to relive the memory, but your voice is a a tad too much. I can't block it out. I can't stop thinking. Let me be.

But you know, it was my first attempt at a sonnet, my last form of communication with you.

15 weeks to go... how cam I going to survive this

Fall

Everything felt like the wind today, fleeting, but real and all I want to do was to take shelter near a warm fireplace where there would be protection. It wouldn't stop blowing though, the wind kept on blowing and it just got colder and there was no where to go. 

Exeunt Petrarch

Finis.

Such a shame

I wrote a poem about you. 

I don't suppose it will be seen again. 

Perhaps, I like you. 

But, perhaps, 

I like writing poems. 

Just a title

That I bring myself to care, 

Never have I been faced with compelling reasons not to. 

Just you wait. Go on this way and one day you'll be out in the streets.

Don't call me your ... 

To be fair

it's completely justifiable.

If I were the world and everyone else, I would not want me to exist.
But then again, even I do not want me to exist.

My first thought was, "Your smile is definitely worth more than that. Infinitely more."

But I've never dreamt of the honour being bestowed upon one so insignificant, of course. Won't the galaxies once fixed for a glance (dare I say!) be sufficient? Again, dare I say, thrice! A rather incredulous intuition.

Let go

Because in the midst of nostalgia, you'll realise that nothing ever last, nothing has ever lasted and nothing ever will. Some things, they say, will never be the same. The constant is, in fact, in its change. We will move from places to places, and what remained will only be a memory. Sometimes we will leave, sometimes we are left. And that persistent memories are but fragments of our ideal longing, no longer real and substantial. 

But you know, it was real then.  

Tuesday

I said, I said, don't bother me, 

with your presence- how can I suppress a flutter? 

with your voice- do let the throbbing of my pulse subside! 

with your smile- they say I almost turned scarlet. 

I said, I said, don't bother me. 

How could I be so superficially drawn? 

As if I was still young to still foolishly indulge! 

But your hand-oh- my thoughts are still in broken fragments. 

I walked with a dream and wish I had not.

It was bliss, and then a torture
to have been envisioned with gold, diamond and silver
yet, to watch them, sense could not help but waver
for even rationality would convert to insanity to withstand such an allure.

"I only have 6 months more," and to endure
it in self-pity, in so clumsy a manner
because in the end what does it matter?
If only! If only! But what does time not cure?

What defines you? A waking dream,
a snowy summer, the collision of stardust
that marshalled captivity and charm-
the personification of a distant and hazy realm
which inspires the perennial feeling of wanderlust
and dare I say, it is a well-executed disarm.

And I still think about you, even from the lowest point, half daring to dream, half mockingly jesting.

To stand on the edge, to look and see your life flashes before your eyes- what it was like, what it is now, and what it'll be like. Wouldn't you be intrigued?

Then you'll feel your future right there and then, calling to you, and whispers its gentle sufferings, its metallic caresses ever determined to keep its rhythmic touches upon you. 

Do you not desire liberty? 

Back to your native spring!

What does it matter now? Change is the only constant- one must keep chanting in one's own mind. At what price? Who knows? 

One must keep up the apathetic disposition, smile in the face of fear, and seemingly mock at the ever fluctuating nature of occurrences one has been graced with. To recoil from doing so is to torture oneself more slowly, for the trials are perennial and stretch beyond the foresight, the end of which never appear even in the slightest manner. Yet, to what extent? The mind is giving way to despair, to abandon itself to hopelessness, and attiring itself in nothing but disdainful defeat. 

What use could life be to one who can only wish but no longer hope? 

Testament

The matter is beyond all human hopes only marshalling the way for despair. 

God help the woman who has to face her fears for 2 years again. God help the woman who would rather die than do that. God help the woman who has to relive her fearful childhood again. God, help..

And somehow it's doubtful if she could make it past her nineteenth

Plunge

In times..such as this, what can one do but continue to hope in the Lord? It's indescribable the notion of the matter weighing so heavily upon the mind and dare I say, the heart. 

Can't one hope? Is there even something to hold on to? Does it seem like a flailing hand desperately clutching at straws? When fear and desperation claw on one's mind and gnaw at one's heart continuously, is it possible not to falter and give way to distress? Is it not possible that one might not recover from such a fall as this? 

My heart is heavy beyond measure. What will it take for fear to dissipate from my mind?

Occupation of an idle mind

I have been meaning to write this for a long time now. Actually, what am I saying? I have been writing to write so many things for a long time now. Time and laziness just got in the way. But I have been writing, yes, I have. Verse by verse, stanza by stanza. It is almost formless and thoughtless, but the reason it took so long is because I have been contemplating so much about forms and the thoughts in between to make it seem otherwise. So much for writing, I digress.

I am grateful for all the God has given me. As I embark on my last year as a..as a.. well, very young person, I am indebted to God for bringing me this far, and always being with me. There were unpleasant times, and I dare say it is an understatement, where I have been tried and of course, if God hasn't been with me, my physical self can hardly be expected to be typing this, even as it typed on a different keyboard with a trampled spirit. To be fair, it has been good mostly, outwardly at least, so I am thankful. Many, God has sent, as blessings to me, and well, blessings are really...how shall I put it, comforting, to say the least. So it is hard to put it..and it is hard to achieve, but I pray, with the guidance of God, that I could be a blessing to many, even as the young adult age approaches. Of course, I am quite specific. Specificity is necessary when you are striving to achieve something, without saying. But for now, I shall leave it as this. I have not fully developed in thinking and well, there are many factors.

Like, for example, my pituitary gland releasing unnecessary signalling molecules at strange time and in strange amounts it interferes with my rational thinking preventing useful things from happening and triggers useless occupation of the mind with idealism and of the body with luxury like penning the thoughts which relentlessly occupy the mind.

There I have said it. Foolish as it is, it is still happening. And I have been writing, yes, I have. Verse by verse, stanza by stanza. It is almost formless and thoughtless, but the reason it took so long as because I have been contemplating so much about forms and the thoughts in between to make it seem otherwise. So much for writing, I digress, again.

Our paths will cross again

They are like all the others, playful, merry and pure, I watched them as they fought with one another, some trying to intervene, some shouting to stop. I watched the boy from the front row on the second column stood up and lead them in prayer for the end of the day and another boy from the back row on the fifth column do the same, giving thanks for their lunch(whether they had any or not). A lunchbox would feed 5 of them. Their enthusiasm for learning echoed across every "Finished, teacher!" as they raised their tiny hands, impatient for their turn. "Good morning, teacherrrr," was what I looked forward to during those days. It was brief, too brief, in fact. But I am just beginning to learn.

Yet, I could not help but wonder about their future. What will they become? Who will they become? I am very much interested. I want to know. I want to connect. I ..want to help.

They are very young to remember an insignificant girl coming to their class but the eldest was fifteen and I have high hopes. I wouldn't just leave a thread hanging. It would be most careless.

Voices- they are calling.

· · · – – – · · ·

"Don't leave me," pleaded she,

"where shall I go after?"

Nowhere, dearie- 

but what does that matter?

You will never be-

where there is laughter

though quite madly 

you will yearn

Don't leave me, 

I am quite weary

I can hear voices screaming at me

it is a sickening malady

don't leave me behind the metal bars 

in a room with no keys

where there is but a small window

that only seems to fit a grey sky

and sometimes ominously dark

with streaks of bright lights being predecessor 

of deafening roars of thunders.

But the voices remain clear,

So don't leave me

or they will one day drown sanity

It is already very hard to breathe

Air- has the room become smaller? 

I can't move from this corner. 

Where is this musty smell coming from?

The window has moved up too high I can't see anything

just hear the -

it is only my voice.

The rusty bars are a mockery of-

water inside my chest and outside!

don't leave me!

don't leave...

don't..

d-

Fear

Can one face something that so exceedingly shake him? Is it then, stupidity to voluntarily face that which one is so terrified of? I ...I dare say, it is now. Diffidence is a permanent weakness on my part. How is it possible for one to ever actively engage in a discourse with strangers? How is it possible, without..the constant throbbing of the veins, fastened palpitation of the heart and consistent self-demeaning thoughts, occasionally mumbling embarrassing comments that ought to not have been spoken at all?

I..just thought I could face it. I just thought...I will get over it. I just thought..it was a thing of the past. It is not.

I still fear.

I fear for tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. This week- I wonder if I can make it without filling the nights with tears. I wonder if I can tell myself what they have told me to tell myself last November- "Hey, I am not useless." I doubt it now. The people are different. The atmosphere is different. Everything will be different.

I ...hope it will be over soon.,,
so that I no longer feel intimidated..
so that those tears will no longer grace my eyes.

Why does this happen to me all the time?
..To be so scared of...people.

Seeing you

Lead to my misstep

I faltered. I was not prepared. 

Naught could have been more pleasant than your sudden appearance and the subsequent greetings, which, though abrupt, was.....

It's harder to recover than was expected. Beratement would not help. But at least, sense did not depart for long. 

So now I'll finish what I started- write off imaginations and indulge in their whims no more, being kept in leaves and bound in ink. And who is to say, the stone will be  thrown at me again? 

'True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain'

It is really silly- no, more of outrageous and I ought to be ashamed of myself! What kind of pubescent immaturity shows in that! Utterly disgusting and ineffably revolting!

I thank the heavens Sense has returned and turned away the afflicted idleness of the mind poisoning its host.

I cannot believe it myself. How I have speak of endurance! Goodness me, Mr Brain must have really departed for a time. Good heavens.

3am ramblings

I can contain this no longer. Is it possible that every atom of my being should crave for a thing so temporary? One might think it silly; I dare say it is silly. But can not the mind direct itself? Why should it be guided by some other thing not of our own being? Parting is rather sorrowful than sweet when it should have been neither. 

Those eyes are not cordial, nor kind, nor warm. So why do I make it so? Why not leave them as they are -cold, partial and monotonous? Does my mind perceive wrongly? 

I would I could find in my heart that I am what others perceived me to be- indifferent, nonchalant and rather unfeeling. My word! I dare say I do, rather than being of a sentimental creature whose inclination to strange habits of the mind only results in wasteful hours of daydreams. It has accumulated to the extent that grey bands and pledging hands will always be significant. 

But there are so many stars, never shy of your presence. 

And you- you're the galaxy of the brightest stars. 

There will be so many more stars, never devoid of your presence. 

I'm rather young, and have much to learn. But it cannot be denied- I'm just a speck of dust. 

In other words, an insignificant nothingness. 

Apt

“If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!”

Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope of meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into Catherine’s head what might happen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget her; and in that case, to meet — ! Her eyes filled with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so renewed; - "

Would you like a handkerchief?

"No, Sir. Thank you very much," or so I would have said. But instead, all I managed to croak out was a pathetic sounding "no". Well,

Romanticising is rarely beneficial but the mind poisons itself beyond recovery. It's mad, insane and knows itself to be so. The sickness is irrevocable. It's horrid. It's torturous. It's pathetic.

Well, at least, tomorrow, I'll have a break and have a little coffee with the bestie at Starbucks which has become our second home, almost. I cannot wait for  tomorrow evening! 

Dialogues from within

When you are by yourself, do you ever think of the world? About the vast galaxies beyond our reach. About the the happy moments being celebrated. About the solemn moments being observed. How often do our thoughts wander far away from home? How often do we think of masses of people walking in the streets, working under the Sun, or asleep in the comfort of a shelter? Rarely. 

The wooden floor creaked with every step, some panels threatening to give way with slightly louder crackings. Even in the dim light, it was clear the room's only ornaments consisted of coats of dust and a few hundred paintings. Some on the wall. The proprietor sighed and made his way to the last painting at the end, certain of his resolution. He was certain, yes, he was certainly taking it down.

"What are you going to do?"

Her. It was her again. She tugged gently at his sleeve, her eyes widened pleadingly.

"Alright, alright, not today. 2 more days, and that's it, alright?"

She nodded and her eyes wandered away to the painting.

"It is so beautiful."

The corner of his lips curled up, as if to smile, but his eyes were devoid of happiness.

"Beautiful, yes, but unreal," he replied. But his words held no effect, her countenance remained gay, partly wistful. Resigning, he added, "Though, of course, the subject must have been quite like his portrait. The artist is very well-known for his art."

"Too well known for this one. He looks as if he is looking at me so pensively it is hard to look away, you know."

"After all, what is art if you cannot connect with it?"

"His hands- they are almost as if ..as if..-"

"It is a famous portrait, my dear."

"But they are so real."

"I beg to differ. If you know the subject,-"

"Oh! Will I know him? Do you think I shall ever be acquainted with him?"

"I am afraid that is most impossible and improbable."

"Such a pity! When this painting is gone, what shall I do? What shall I do, indeed!"

"Why, you will no longer trouble me!"

"Don't always talk so! But pray tell me, why shall I not be his friend?"

"My dear, strangers do not concern themselves with little ones like you. Now, now, don't be so downcast. Is it not the portrait you enjoy?"

"Isn't the portrait based on a model?"

"I did not say it was not. But the portrait- it only shows you what is pleasing to be shown. In fact, this portrait is perfection, did you not think so? That is because it was only meant to convey perfection. But the subject is not. He is just like you and I and anyone else, really. Inside, we are all a little defective. His defects..they are just not seen superficially."

"Still, I would have like to..¬"

"It will be just another painting that fades away from your memory when you stop frequenting it."

"I don't think I ever shall- how can I forget those dark eyes that the stars can't outshine? They watched me sometimes, I think 4 times, I dare say they wandered towards me."

"But galaxies await them- why should they stop to pacify you?"

"And I could feel it, you know, the gentle movements- oh, and how, I was so close! I could feel the warmth. I would like to feel it always, but you are taking it away and I will have it no longer."

"And there is that. 2 more times and this space will be empty. Don't fret over it, lass. It's not the only painting in existence."

They only wandered...towards the dark and dingy storeroom at the corner of the delusional street, and often found themselves lost and duplicated, in the gallery of memories. 

Minute

Those stars, twice upon which I was graced with their radiance. But maybe I imagined. Maybe I conjectured. No matter, for it is no comfort to know those radiance will fade, their owner, gone, before I get to know,..

And I? Just a speck of dust in the endless galaxies they roam ever upon. 

In a moment

so transient,
Your name will no longer be endearing.
your presence, would no longer require endurance.
but why do you press at your heart so
and make me forget my resolution
why do you have to look so

I pray you, stop
more
don't look so vacant
the keenness do accentuate
but I do not even matter

it will be transient
and I will get better-
no more silliness- I,
won't let my guard down
for now, you own.

Your perfection is misery inducing.

another 2 and still enduring
your perfection.
all I see
-perfection

The writer must write what one cannot express! If only. This too shall pass. But God give me patience!

And 3 more

And no more. I would say, "au revoir" but I would not see 

And I would forget the grey skies 

Your dark eyes - pray, 

Let me gaze 

One last time 

A+++

I said hi. It has been almost 6 months when last I saw him. In the same light blue shirt. His short structure and assuming gait. Almost 3 years ago, this figure was intimidating- almost detestable. Well, don't I remember, having been a victim of the accusation, "Copied work?" But that was long ago. Now he uttered his surprise and our discourse drifted into a painful reminder of a summer long past. How everyone is doing now, how they are doing now, how I am doing now..

He told me, "Think for the long-term. Don't be swayed by temporary ...."
I assured him I would not, I would try not to.

And then he asked, "What do you think of doing?"
I laughed uncertainly, mumbling along the line of "going with the flow" and "whatever I can get".

I did not think I would ever hear them. Or that I was capable of it. Or that I was deserving.
Of hearing them. But he replied.

"You can make it."

I am grateful, to have been a pupil of such an extraordinary teacher.

Remember when

I told him I have done a terrible thing.

He said,
no.

You've done many terrible things. 

"Spirit lead me

where my trust is without borders,
 let me walk upon the waters wherever you would call me
take me deeper than my feet could ever wander,
 and my faith would made stronger in the presence of my Saviour.

And I will call upon your name keep my eyes above the waves
when oceans rise,
My soul will rest in Your embrace. 

When feet may fail and fear surrounds me, 
You never fail and You won't start now."

Hey nonny nonny

The pen just hovered over the thin lines, waiting for a signal. But none came. 

Perhaps, 6 more times and it will dance flawlessly again. And then I'll laugh and write "Here it goes: parting is such sweet sorrow.". 

Then sigh not so, but let them go and be you blithe and bonny, converting all your sounds of woe into Hey Nonny-nonny! - Much ado about nothing, Shakespeare