I wasn’t supposed to be cast aside
But when the day came you threw me away
It made me realize the treasure I always am,
And the trash you always have been
I was smitten with The White Apartment. There was really nothing special when you walk through its door. But memorizing every moment and placement of objects in its space can keep you occupied for a while. You would be able to spot the rusty table on the side that made the sun reflect its light directly into your eyes. There were wires and cables on the floor that were connected to mobile phones and several fans that were scattered across the room. If you liked being away from the city, just take a look through the windows. They were barred but the spacing in between bars didn’t make it seem too suffocating. There was a wide space of green and sky, bereft of telephone wires. I stood where I did, lifting my toes up a bit to take a whiff of the outside air. It also smelled good inside the apartment. Russia had her bag open and I could tell that the floral scent came from the perfume that spilled inside it. Tony was preoccupied messing around with Shanna and Lisa that he wasn’t able to attend to Russia’s call for help. My companion for travel for four straight hours was Colt. He was a thin fellow with the brightest eyes one could ever come across. He sat at the foot of the bed and rearranged his clothes inside the bag that made me perceive it as a detachable turtle shell. He had always been slightly hunched. The bed next to him was inviting; the pillows seemed soft, the curtains hung adjacent to it swayed sleepily as if its invitation for slumber would be impossible to say no to. That was where Hailey and Ina laid. Hailey’s legs were up to her chest, chin placed on her knees as she held a book that rested upon her feet. Ina’s back was on the wall, leaning in now and then to read with Hailey. I was standing by the door for several minutes and only realized this when shooting pain went across my left shoulder. My bag felt like it weighed a ton. I wasn’t going to stay long here yet I brought a lot of clothes with me. I got several pats on my back and heartwarming embraces that stole away the dark clouds that hung above me for weeks. I was soaked and drenched in self-inflicted hurricanes but to the common eyes, I was just as good as dry. I set my things onto the floor and sat cross-legged next to Colt. I took Hailey’s hand and laid my head onto Colt’s shoulder. Ina laid on her stomach and wrapped her arms around my neck. I could still smell the sweat of the city on me but I was too exhausted to be embarassed about it. As I stared looking at Russia having her arms around Lisa, Shanna and a struggling Tony, I felt an odd sensation on the upper left-hand corner of my chest. I think my heart finally got its smile back, and I’ve never been more closer to home than that day.
back to being a zombie
straight through your temple
my heart hangs by the window
your jacket’s gone, thrown
I will never remember you again
Phoebe: I miss your hair, legs and fair skin. I speak of you as if I am a lover hiding behind the bushes as you flip the pages of your new book. I speak of you as if I scrutinize you under that shade of a tree you consider your home. I speak of you as if I’ve always known you, memorizing the movement of your shadow, wishing I could clothe myself with it. I speak as if I have never known a truer love towards the eyes that searched the night for clarity and a love that was sung in hymns.
But I am a mere stranger, who has learned to attach a piece of her soul upon yours; a soul intricately woven with unspoken truths and unequivocal breaths of your delicate being.
Through bottles of liquid gold, blue, treacherous transparency and the smoky air, we became one, along with striving souls cross-legged on the very same floor where tears were shed, were laughter broke our lungs.
I will miss those nights. I will miss the wide eyes that scanned the empty skies until our eyelids drooped upon pillows, pillows that woke us into mornings into each other’s glow. Yellow, I love you. Sybella, I love you.
Even in this tragedy, the little eternities have already begun.
Holden: I do not believe in forever. But with you, we have wrought a good one. We love you becos we get what we deserve.
Sybella: I love you, Phoebe.
Phoebe: Been devoid of clarity of things that the truths beg for my eyes to bleed the misery that has left me caged. The deaths were frequent. Breaths were cut short as the familiar music slowly turned to noise that infiltrated my dreams. Sleep was no longer easy. Time watched me squirm as I bathed in my own sweat as my heart drummed rapidly upon my chest.
I knew I was begging for the stars to take me away. I knew that I was distant from the tranquility that I was hoping to blanket me when the sun has descended. But that wasn’t the plan. Maybe there was a reason why the timetables of late have recorded and tallied my tears, enough to decorate several walls as if they were secret patterns. I knew the answers. I knew what I had to do. But something was pulling me back. The currents remained as they are. My lungs hurt. I couldn’t hold on to anything to help me get some air.
But the nights of intoxication and breathing in the smoke of brokenness was already a rebirth for me. I still feel older, but my heart has a brand new kind of hope that was rational and already in pursuit of what I deserve. I will miss waking into mornings with glowing fireflies of people right by my side. I will miss walking side by side of shadows that will fend the demons in my mind.
Most of all, I will miss these tears for I know that they will end soon. For I know that as long as there are mornings, as long as I have beautiful people to love and to hold, there is no ending that will hurt me this much again.
We all will get what we deserve. But right now, I know I deserve you all. And that’s all I’ll ever need to know.
I love you, Holden. You’re the fucking best.
Holden: A tug of war creates a subtle havoc inside me. A war of ties, that my heart is strangled in a rat-king. I would have had this constantly as a sacrifice until I have awaken to the truth that no one is on the other end of the rope - no one but the embodiment of lies and false hopes. And not this will have me let the other fall, becos here, the one who truly sees the quintessence in a star’s scintillation and a tear drop’s song slenderly holds the rope. Calloused and weary hands, holding on to this tie like a prayer.
We know what to do, we’ll learn how to do it. Throw away the lies, throw away the rotten and preserve the good ones, throw away the excessive baggages we carry. Carry the good ones, keep them in good thoughts, keep them close, keep them from veering away. Do not compare your tragedies and triumphs, though it’s clear that superficial comfort would be out-shadowed by your little picaresques and massive lights.
Let’s turn and burn the last leaf, Phoebe. I’ll buy you a ticket, the carousel is still crooning a tiny waltz for you.
Feels like a funeral inside my wintry heart. Sorry. And thank you.
I will write a book about you
But won’t utter your name
Or talk about you
I will write a book about you
Without our memory
Even in the last chapter
I will write a book about you
With lasting emotions
But none of which are us
I will write a book about you
As narrated by my heart
As if I’ve forgotten about you
I will write a book about you
Not necessarily about you
But it would be for you anyway
detaching from your anchors
have set me free from your grip
my lungs still ache from the currents
but I am free, goodbye to you old love
You’re now an imperfect memory. The lies soak me good. If I could reverse the days, I probably would have said no before. But now, I would gladly eradicate your memory. I once thought hate and forgetfulness would never be an option for me, for it I’ve always deemed it nasty and heartless. But in a person’s life, there are the few exceptions. This disgust would rocket me away from your tainted atmosphere. The lies, the deception and misery you’ve clouded upon us all have suffocated us for too long. You were beautiful, but I will allow myself to mourn over the corpse of the dreams and perfection that I once saw as you. I will pray over your sacred shards. I will safely tuck the reminiscence inside their boxes, away from the cobwebs that will dim the light in this room. I will eventually be devoid of rage, but the void I will plant with your thought will remain. And I think I will like that. I thought that your departure and death has left me empty. But I’ve only had my fill of you; done and over with. There are no exceptions in this life, I’ve realized. Only acceptance and clarity will help win battles. You were probably never my exception. Together you and I, we probably never were special. But I think I’m okay with that. I still want to love. I still want to be loved. I’m still breathing.
I cannot say if I should declare this now or not. The ice in my tea has created a layer of water above it, the lemon lays lip on the lip of the glass. and I quiver at the electric fan’s fierce winds. But I feel a warmth that feels strange to me. It’s spreading from my chest to all over. It’s a good kind of strange. I feel stronger. Lighter, even. These new days are opportunities for me to dive into newly discovered depths that I’ve always wanted to avoid. I liked seeing the shape of my footprints on the sand. I liked feeling the granules between the toes. The water that played on my feet always left me skeptical and frightened. The seas had its own secrets. I wasn’t ready to venture them unless I’ve resolved mine. But the skies were gentler as it guided me into the waters I’ve always only observed from afar. The shore was my sanctuary, a safer place. But I was ready to feel the rush of danger in my veins again. For as long as I could remember, I was always one to sacrifice everything to keep a significant soul within my small but kind days. They chose to leave. I’ve been left countless times. But right now, I’m okay with that. There’s a certain clarity in wanting to go blind-drunk and searching for answers within recurring questions. There’s a certain fulfillment in realizing that falling this far down taught me to fly. I’m still scared. There’s still a void. But I am never alone and never empty. In this strange new chapter, I am beautiful.
“This Book Will Change Your Life” by Benrik. She bought it a month ago. The illustrations and graphic art within its pages were just the boost she’d need on a day-to-day basis when her creative juices would run dry. She worked alone at a deserted yet beautiful white-washed office but she would have preferred company than this book.
Flipping through the pages, 116 caught her eye in particular. She never got flowers in her entire life, except for carnations. Scanning to the bottom left of the page and reading its description, she chuckled to herself. It all makes sense, she thought. The flowers were dead now. The person who gave it, too. It was a good run while it lasted.
The world is a strange place, even if the reasons why souls fail root from the same crime. Hope is a painful feeling to nurture. It is like dreaming of the summer sun when all there ever is winter inside your chest. The constant struggle to freeze the sly impressions of the past is like trying to capture the breath of a star that was never there. Lights of the night can be treacherous. They symbolize rebirth and stagnancy. Stars are beautiful, but they are mere watchers. They are the audience that keeps their applause to themselves. Our world is their stage and our pains are their entertainment. When they’ve had their fill, the sun takes over and a brand new timetable sets forth broken-winged sparrows to nest upon wheezing trees. The world is a strange place. We are put here on earth with the most vulnerable thing one could ever possess, our strength and weakness rooting from the same fragility that makes us human. We will always be doomed with this eternal winter in our hearts. But it’s an elegiac beauty isn’t it?
I cannot put this into words. Thoughts do not accomplish fruition. My left shoe taps at the floor, in hopes of inscribing something worth the read. My palm is pressed upon the paper, which I later on scrunch inside my fist. I embraced my flaws, miseries and the void that came along with it. But I found pleasure in mourning and celebrating the deaths of past dreams. It was like having a beautiful beast in captive. I held it by the throat, its chain stained of dried blood and tears. I tied it to my bed post. It remains there to remind me of the reason why I am the shadow that lurks this misty room. My hair is upon my face yet I breathed freely. Sudden clarity hit me; being alive was no longer difficult. My chest was devoid of its pains. I think I know why I couldn’t write anymore. I’ve finally stopped wanting to talk about my pain, which was all about you. This strange state of confusion was a celebratory homecoming from the abyss. In the fullness of time, I’m okay again. A good kind of different, finally.
I remembered that I was invited by some people from out of town for a couple of drinks. My car being broken down was one of the reasons why I said I couldn’t go, even though the train station was just right around the corner. And I had no car. Their invitation still stands and the shindig’s taking place the day after. After brushing my teeth this morning and looking upon my reflection in the mirror, someone strange and still stared back at me. Sometimes, I feel as I’m disappearing into my thoughts that one day, I think I won’t be able to see myself in the mirror anymore. Brushing away the thought, I realized that a part of me actually wanted to go. It wasn’t because I was elated at the thought of seeing familiar faces. What good would that do when the attachment and significance was long-gone? I knew their request for my company was merely for “old times sake” and nothing but. I saw no purpose and implication for proceeding with a bond that’s now non-existent. And I didn’t mind that. My arrythmic heart knows this well in its quarters: The several of us wear masks, simply because the realness of our being is then exposed to us with sheer clarity. At least that’s how I saw it. I think I was ready to wear my mask and confront old companions. It would be good for me. It might take my mind off things, away from a particular someone. It was then and there when I finally found the sympathy to understand you. I often wondered and wandered with unanswered questions and the disclosure of the rationale of these events. How were you able to move past the soul that you once tethered yourself to, just because one night of inebriation and vapor stole you of your pledge? How were you able to sequester yourself in corners with the company of those who are lesser than humans, hyenas to be exact? And then it hit me: There was a pseudo-birth in being surrounded by those who are oblivious and nonchalant towards your undisclosed agonies. There was a sense of fulfillment when escape is made successful by being in the presence of shallow personages; a hazy camaraderie for the borrowed night made victorious. In that moment, I felt a speck of sympathy dampen my coarse spirits. In that moment, I understood the beast that trampled and destroyed the truths that I once held close to my chest each night. I understood how you’ve felt, but I’m afraid that it’s still not your vindication. I stared at my reflection again. This time I saw a deep, quiet sea in my eyes and there floated a lone boat, gently rocking in its surface. There’s always been the desire to leave this place and venture waters and lands that I’ve never set foot on. But these were chapters that I had to go through, even if the pain was too much to be gauged. I might as well get a move-along by bumping glasses with familiar strangers. Maybe in that moment of pseudo-birth, I’d find my own path to forgiveness and vindication.
Forgiveness is a tricky thing. I pondered about the instances of recent that have affected me greatly. I realized; it’s easier to welcome change when you want to escape. Change does not necessarily depict acceptance. I am envious of those selected few who have the talent to not linger over feelings too much. Watching yourself try and try everyday only to falter is something you’d fail to forget. It is also painful to witness the same ordeal happen to good people. I guess we don’t let go of our past, of the pain, simply because that’s what we have left of what used to be ours: happiness. As Jonathan Safran Foer puts it, you cannot protect yourself from sadness if you don’t protect yourself from happiness. Point well-made. I know in my heart that I cannot instill angst within its quarters for more than a few weeks. Hope is something that I wish I didn’t have. It would probably be the cause of my ceasing. Not the physiological curtain-closing of an ending, but the daily dose of deaths when a hopeful portion of our souls die, when someone breaks our trust, our incautious hearts. I’ve forgotten how it felt like to float above the ground, continuously rising above the clouds until you can whisper to the sun. I’ve forgotten the crucial moment when I’ve shared my deepest secret to the moon that it had strayed away from my bedside window for many nights. I cried a lot back then when it left me. But it came back, with its warm light securing my bed off of the demons that would invade my dreams. That, I remember. The warmth of a familiar lullaby. Even the strongest elements of nature can be brought to their knees. The stars in the evening sky would mirror the pains of everyone who wept their way to slumber. The world is a brave one. I’d like to think it is. It’s the memories and the ability to inflict pain that divides us from inner peace. The great unrest pervades as long there are hearts out there who are willing to sacrifice themselves, just so they could give the other a boost to the cerulean skies. Even if it were in the expense of their own breaths, it is their glory. I feel exhaustion in my chest, but I’m still smiling. Maybe my turn will come soon. Until then, I know sleeping nightly would bring me closer.