Grumps

Hi Pamela,

You wrote me 30 letters to read when I'm feeling low, so I wanna do the same for you. Before this, I never knew how sad you were when you told me you were feeling grumpy, but now I sort of understand how helpless you feel when I'm upset and you feel like you can't do anything to help me. Some things I do when I'm feeling low is watch movies of runway fails, watch funny commercials, or go to sixbillionsecrets.com. I'm not sure how you cope with it, but you can try them out, I'm not sure if they help. Remember to take care of yourself too, drink some water, and take a warm shower later, I know you probably don't feel like sleeping so early. Lastly, remember that I'm always here if you wanna talk about anything, and I mean anything, and I promise to take care of you. It makes me sad and restless to see my happy girl so grumpy. Here's a grumpy sleeping crocodile, I love you.

Fifth

Dear Pamela

Last night I asked you what falling in love felt like. You told me its hard to express, a strange but welcoming sort of fuzzy warm feeling. In many ways you're probably right, and its really quite funny how hard and utterly complex it is to explain something as simple as love. I've probably attempted this before, but we both know that love is an everchanging constant, and so for the love of words and for the love of you, I'll do it again.

Falling in love with you is like a scorching summer
Where the heat is overwhelming and never fails to catch you off guard
Sometimes it hides behind a cloud and the world dims noticeably around you
But just when you think its over, it emerges twice as intense

Falling in love with you is like the sweet scent of spring
Those days when you catch me staring at you and the slightest smile blooms within your lips
Its really small things like that which fills my lungs with honey when I try to breathe
Its really small things like that which still make butterflies flutter in my stomach after five months

Falling in love with you is like painting the colours of autumn
Love like a palette of reds and yellows and browns and all those in betweens that haven't been named yet
Its the warmth of woolen sweaters and the sound of crunching leaves
Watching them tumble from branches and remembering that like them, you too are free to fall in love

Falling in love with you surrounds me like snow in winter
Your hugs like warm cocoa in front of a fire yet your kisses like frostbite on my cheeks
The emotions we feel are like drifting snowflakes, each unique but intricately expressed
Yet look what happens when they blanket the world, an incredible winter wonderland

Canals, Gondolas

I'm getting sick of what life is throwing me. Its getting so predictable yet unavoidable and it just feels like someone is slapping my face over and  over again. Sometimes I feel like I don't give a shit anymore. Sometimes I remember that I do, and it sucks. If I went to travel right now, I'm pretty sure I won't even bother coming back anymore.

If This Was The Last Thing I Said

This one is for Pamela.

I don't know how to begin with this. If I were to leave, I hope you'll be okay. You're a dancer. I see it in you everywhere you go. Treading one foot after the next on the sidewalk. Skipping cracks on the pavement. You're one of those people whose dreams resonate within you and burst forth in every action you do. I will never be in a position to critique your skills, but your passion is something so special.  If I were to leave you, I hope you chase those dreams the way you chased the frothy edges of the sea at our spot at the beach. Never thoroughly pursuing, but never letting out of sight, a dance to a rhythm between only the sea and the sand between your toes.

I hope you find someone who loves you and never leaves you the way I have. I hope he never finds a reason to doubt his love for someone like you. You'll meet a boy who can't help but smile every time he sees you, someone who will hold your hands in his and study the creases like constellations. He'll tell you the meaning of the lines you've drawn on your skin, and he'll tell you about his family and his dreams, and how every wrong turn in his life eventually led to you. I hope you meet someone that your family will love, and he will take time off to get tackled by your nieces and hold hands with you in front of your father. And I hope he will call in the middle of the day to remind you that he loves you and leave random notes around to tell you how incredible you are. And even behind closed doors, he will hold you in his arms so delicately that you will allow yourself to trust him. You will find a man who's been searching everywhere for someone like you, and he's going to make you happy in a way I never can.

If I leave you, I hope you'll keep on loving the things you do. I hope you continue to make warm nutella sandwiches because they're the best things I've tasted. I hope you continue to look up at the stars, and count them, and after a while give up because they're like holes on a piece of canvas and you are but one girl trying to conquer the universe. And I hope you try, because the universe is within your reach.

I fell in love with your sincerity, your kindness, and your compassion, and I believe all these things make you who you are. If I die, I hope all these things stay alive within you and that you're able to share them with someone else whose whole world amounts to you. I hope you find happiness, and I hope you remember me by that one night I wrote a song for you and played it on the guitar and sang out of key. Embarrassing, but I suppose its who I am, an ambitious mix of overthinking and too little thinking. Its never been the case that I don't love you. Even when I cannot say it, its because those words simply don't capture the integrity of what I feel towards you. Its not just love, its intrigue, and amazement, and anger, and care, and guilt and I don't think the simplicity of love is what they all sum up to. 

But if I die, hope you never need to see my body. Remember me for a while, and then let me go as soon as you can. You are so much more and you can be happy without me. Have faith.

What You Want, What I Need

Sometimes I imagine us, squinting out fuzzy blossoms of daylight, 6.57 in the morning. You'd let out a tired sigh of content and arch your back against my stomach as I rub my thumbs in circles on either side of your navel. I press my face into the crook of your neck, the fine hairs at the bottom of your skull softly caressing my cheek. The sunlight is pouring in now, through the slits in your curtain, casting shadows on your body that I delicately trace with my fingertips. I lean in closer, lips barely brushing against your bare shoulder, breathing, warm breaths on your skin, hands gently urging you closer. My eyes close as I give in desire, pressing my lips against your neck to taste your skin.

Then there's sometimes where I imagine us in the still privacy of your bedroom, heat hanging low in the air around us. I trace your silhouette with my gaze; watching your lithe movements makes an urging need pool at the bottom of my stomach. I cross the room to you and you turn to acknowledge my presence. The look on my face must have given me away, but I'm too far gone by now. Two steps and I have you against the wall, my hips pressing against yours. My hands find their way along your spine, kneading into your body in a steady rhythm as you lean into me. I tilt your chin up gently so I can taste your lips. I want to delve into the warmth of your mouth but you begin to clutch me urgently from deep strokes of my hands on your back. I can hear you whimper softly as you dig your nails into the back of my neck. I cannot imagine what sensations you are feeling, but in a moment fueled by carnal urges, I only want to pleasure you more.

Late Fucking Late

Clubber are always late. They don't give a shit if they have something on the next day or anything, they will go late, come home late, wake up late, and be fucking late. I don't fucking care if you reach home at 6 in the morning, don't fucking tell me you can meet me when you can't. If you make that arrangement, I don't care if you have to sacrifice your fucking sleep, you bloody well better be there. Responsibilities man. You foiled my plans, you make me travel out lugging presents for you, and you're so fucking late I have to travel TO YOU and travel back. What the fuck. God knows what's the point of meeting up anymore.

Stages of Missing

You're there somewhere above me 

When I stir awake at 4.26 in the morning 

You whisper down to me from the cracks in the concrete

Beckoning me to play with the shadows on the ceiling

I see you dart across a puddle on the pavement

You pass right after I do, illuminated by blinking lights

I try to run and leave you behind 

But all these watery mirrors show not my reflection, only yours 

There was a day where I came home and you were sitting there on my bed

You drew me in and on top of you, and your flesh felt like fire against my skin

But I couldn't do it

So we fell asleep with my arms around you so tight, I couldn't feel you slip away

You stopped by when I passed out on the sidewalk, having too much to drink

You lifted my chin and stroked the greasy hair off my forehead

I started vomiting violently, my throat lining burned and swelled

You were gone, and I passed out again

One night I woke up at 4.27 and there were no noises in the ceiling

I'd been sober for the past three days and the streetlights outside were dimmed

My breathing grew labourous, I panicked, and I tore at my sheets 

But then you looked up from next to me with a puzzled look and asked me what was wrong

I held onto you for longer than I knew 

And this time, you stayed

The Girl Who Cried Moon

This is the story of the girl who cried moon. This is no documentary of the broken soul nor is it a paragraph off of a romance novel. This is in no way complete nor is it intended to be. This is from a single perspective and is the only truth that needs to be told.

This is the story of the girl who cried moon and the boy who cried wolf. They sat together by the river's edge and spoke of inner demons and unfortunate mishaps. A single teardrop of light spilled from the creases in between blankets of stars and rested gently upon the water's surface. It broke apart into stardust, and ripples carried each fleck of light to the water's edge where the moon and the wolf were resting.

All the moon never knew was to fall in love. All she knew was to love, and love unconditionally all creatures  of the same blood. She was radiant as she was beautiful, and she gave salvation to many a traveler lost out at sea, many flights of geese lost in migration. She did not direct her light in any direction, nor could she direct her love to cradle the one lonely boy trying to find her light.

All the wolf knew was to fall in love, and fall in love he did. If raspy claws could scratch on tightened strings, and if a feeble croak from tired lungs would suffice, he'd paint songs upon songs into the night's canvas just to encompass her in the masterpiece orchestrating itself all around her. But he was a meer wolf, and the nightingale's call was haunting, and the moon was beautiful, and he wished he were a nightingale so he could perch upon the edge of the canyon and weave melodies into her moonlight.

The girl who cried moon and the boy who cried wolf stood together by the river's edge, watching the waves soak up the the last glowing specks off the edge of the watery abyss. Their demons were spilled on the brick floor between them, and both moon and wolf finally looked up for the first time. Here was a girl in a robe seamed in light, and here was a boy in a heavy hood of fur. She was kind as she was beautiful and fall in love he did, as he made quiet promises locked in an oath as she placed chaste lips upon his scarred cheek.
He could've howled.

This is written by the boy who cried wolf, and this is the only truth he knows. This is in no way complete for its only the beginning of everything he hopes for, and his broken soul all and more is all he will give to write this romance. This is the story of the girl who cried moon, and the boy who fell in love with her for it.

Stupid Crazy Feeling

Things have changed quite a bit from when I last wrote in. Same blacks and whites, same pieces on the board, but we're in different places. 

The first time I held your hand, it was my birthday. You took me out that day, we had cheap takeout and played with sparklers in the park, the park was a-wash with the smell of afterrain and we stargazed like the universe was in the palm of our hands. I'd been wary of going too fast, and even as your fingers were grazing mine, that thought still clouded my mind. 

--

All I know now is that every time I meet you, I fall in love with you again and again.

Step One

That's the thing I keep forgetting. Getting into a relationship with someone doesn't mean you stop learning. It doesn't automatically brand you on the forehead letting you know you've reached your destination. There is no finish line in a relationship, or perhaps there is, only that once you've reached the finish line, the relationship is over.  Not much of a finish line anyway, just a corridor of doors and more doors opening up opportunities to learn more than you ever had about your partner. But the thing is, you want to learn. You'll want to memorise the sequence in which she tosses and turns and stirs awake in her sleep, and you'll want to be able to read the lines on her palms like a map that leads home. You'll want to continue learning because you care about her and you wanna be able to give her something tailor suited to her needs. And I should say this, not every moment will be perfect. You might knock teeth when you first kiss, or you might come to realise you look better in makeup than she does, but it's alright because she's already the most beautiful person in your eyes. Heck, you might even get annoyed that your almost-hug got interrupted by an angry old lady, but you know that what really sparked your concern was seeing the brief moment of fear flicker across her eyes. And you know how she'll always say she'll never be a good girlfriend, but then again, you're not much of a boyfriend either so you pray to any god that you know of that the two of you could just take each others' hands and stumble out into the wilderness together, unprepared but as prepared as you can be. You take turns taking the lead, she's braver than you are, and you fall in love with the way she paints the ground with her feet. The two of you are learning, and it's alright.

Toil and Tolls

I'm sorry. I'm so so tired. It's not that I'm crashing, it's that I've fallen headlong and I'm having trouble gathering my limbs and thoughts to pull myself together. When I hugged you last night and you asked how I felt, I lied to you. I didn't wish that it lasted any longer than it did, I was so caught up in my thoughts that I forgot to hold you closer and I felt guilty for that. It's not much coherent thought now, just a monotonous flurry of noises like some sort of black and white stop motion roll. Flickering. 

--break--

Only now have I been able to pinpoint why I'm unable to read my own thoughts. My thoughts. They're usually a battalion of soldiers, that despite their numbers, march in rows and order. Except this time it isn't an army. It's no single battalion. They come from all directions, different sources of stress caused by a slight shift in my stringent life routines. My thoughts are an army. Except this time, it's war.

It's 8.34 in the morning. My skull feels like iron and I feel bruised behind my eyeballs. And I'm sorry. I'm so so tired.

The Mist

I am not the sun, for my touch won't pierce through these sheets of grey

And I am not the rain, for I'm not able to wash your doubts away

I'm no raging blizzard, for this fog can't be whitewashed with a coat of snow

And I am not hail, for I'm not able to freeze time over so you can sort out your thoughts

I am not lightning, for I lack the power to destroy all your demons

Yet I am not thunder, for I would never intend my voice to shake your bones

In this freckled mist, I am but a breath of air lingering on your lips to remind you how much you are alive.

In this thickened haze, I am the howling beyond the hills so you'll always know your way home.

In this blinding fog, I am the wind that can only be felt but cannot hold you, hoping  it might be enough.

Crumpled Sheets

You showed me pictures of bedrooms in between breaks at work. Some had gentle rays of light breaking through the curtain fabric, others were enveloped in a blanket of darkness. All were vacant of human presence, just crumpled sheets tossed atop of the bed. I observed how those sheets must have bore the outline of the sleeper, or held his gentle snores and musky scent, stories unkemptly folded between sheets of lackluster whites. Thrown in a heap when one was late to work and didn't have the time to fold them neatly. Drawn loosely over a frightened child on a stormy morning. Cradling the hushed sighs and soft longing of lovers tangled in echoes of each others' warmth. 

In just a few photos of messy sheets, I conjure up snapshots of what it might have meant to you.

Decoy

I only ever wanted to steal you from under his breath and save you from unnecessary pain. I never intended to fall this way. Never.

Clockface

When tasked with the simple objective of illustrating what time means to us, how many amongst us will draw the face of a clock? It's funny, how what we so rightfully depict as time, is the very same concept that destroys the notion of time itself. Time is more than needle hands synchronically travelling the same laps in a monotonous, analog movement. In fact, I could stretch the argument and say that the repeated movement of the clock in itself can be challenged by an alternative school of thought. After all, time is but a unit of measure to fill in the unknown void that is our lifetime. Hence, what one day means to a 3 day old infant, and what it means to a forty year old meant, varies greatly in scale and proportion. To the man, one day is a small fraction of his 14600 day life, in comparison to a third of the infant's entire life (this is also why time seems to speed up more as you get older).Hence in the argument, the concept of 'time' varies greatly from person to person, and the written form of such would be represented by an exponential graph instead of a linear one. However, with such a dynamic unit of measurement, it would be immensely difficult, if not impossible, to reach a uniform consensus when it comes to completing time sensitive tasks. Therefore as a whole, humanity must have created the clock as mainly a framework that we all try to fit ourselves into much like an adult and a baby both trying to fit into a single sized shirt, literally really, with the adult having to squeeze into it while the child has plenty of excess space around him. To put it into context, the clock, instead of a standard unit of measurement, is really more of a bar against which we compare our personal exponential time graphs to, with the result being the difference between the control (the clock) and the variable (each one's individual time). 

Think about it, without the certainty granted to us by the equal hours on the clock, how much differently would we be living our lives?

Silent Consent

There is no consent between the sun and the moon but a silent agreement for one to die every day for the other to awaken. There is no consent between the sand and the waves but a mutual contract for one to beat itself upon the other till it froths at the lips. There is no consent between trees and the birds, but a quiet settling for homes to be built upon branches of branches, for notes to be strung in the veins of leaves, for a secret orchestra to be tucked within the gallows of the forest.

There is no consent necessary, simply the quiet understanding that neither would hurt the other. 

There is no consent between the two stargazers sitting on the bench, simply comfort in the way their bodies collided and offered warmth amidst the chilly air around them. 

There is no consent between the two young souls weaving galaxies between their lips, simply losing breaths as they fall into each other as much as they were falling into the sky.

There was no consent between us, simply resting, closer, closer. Yearning but shy, gently glowing connections that anyone who were to observe us from the galaxies above would've thought we were constellations in the night.

Between the Soil and the Sky

Clandestine;

Shrouded by darkness, many spirits show themselves under the veil of darkness. As the analog hands of the setting sun fall into place in between strips and swirls of crimsons and violets, the sky mutters a soft word before stretching its lips thin and swallowing the world into darkness. What the word is, we don't know, but what we do know is that in those few moments, we temporarily collide into another dimension, and, although we humans are too ignorant to notice, small, bright eyed spirits tiptoe their way all around us and take their places in a ritualistic performance we commonly know as night. 

Last night celebrated another month of the spirit La Luna's return to our world. You and I, we both basked under the handfuls of moonlight she generously scattered over the surface of the damp wooden deck we sat on as we talked about what happiness was made of. The spirits must have wondered that night, as did the clusters of people who left us puzzled eyes, what these kids were doing eating pizza and ice cream with spoons they had to buy in a pack of twenty. We're just kids after all, fascinated by the spirits playing with fire in the sky. Shimmers of light blinking mutedly like dusty lightbulbs in the basement, what a beautiful wonder to behold.

And then you came over and lay against me back to back. In that moment, I swear the sky must have muttered a word because it felt like two worlds collided. Or maybe it was just because we knocked our heads a little the first time, and I wasn't used to the physical closeness, but it all soon melted away like the world did in that moment. It must have been five songs, maybe twenty, later, but still every sigh drew me closer, every graze urged another, desperately searching. Two dying embers seeking their way through layers of clothes and darkness to embrace the other and ignite such raw feelings I thought I'd buried in the past.

In that moment, the spirits must have known, because I opened my eyes and saw them. I saw them leading a parade through the river, ribbons of blue, white, and orange cascading behind them like fish darting through the water. I saw them flying kites on the clouds, the air underneath their sails thickening to a roll of breeze that crackled the fire. And I saw them polish the moon with bucketfuls of light, letting it pour down onto earth and wash over our naked eyes. It was so beautiful, picturesque, sublime.

That night, those three words also crossed my mind as I watched you tiptoe on the railings overlooking the river. And even as I got to walk up to you, I already knew that I wouldn't have been able to hold you closer that night. That night, it was unclear as to whether the spirits entered our world, or we somehow fell into theirs. But it was beautiful, you are beautiful, and now I know what happiness is made of.

Coupla Months

It could have been worse, but why do i feel so dreadful about waiting for a few months. Its not like I haven't done that before, but has the last thing that happened between ck and I imprinted on me that waiting for someone for so long never ends in something good? Am I that afraid of hoping for the best? Its me questioning myself now.

I've never quite liked someone like her all my life. Everyone I've been with (including short-term ones I never really counted) is the kind of girl whose profile boasts confidence, flirtatiousness, and boys queuing round the block, the kind of girl I (quote my ex) "kinda saunter in and charm" my way to, the type of girl seeking a storybook romance. Never once have I liked a girl who likes the same things that I do, or is in more ways than one, a reflection of who I want to be. Kinda strange, but I'm guessing that's why I'm kinda afraid of how this would turn out as well. And also because given the kind of girls I've dated are mostly pretty confident, they're also the kind who's willing to get into a relationship as long as we both knew we were interested in each other. If it worked, it did, if it didn't then fingers crossed we'd remain friends. So I guess it took me by surprise that this girl would wanna wait for some time before deciding. Alright, to be honest, I don't know what I'm so concerned about. Or do I. Am I concerned that if I keep waiting then it'll only end up the way it did with ck, many long months of confusion and uncertainties about anything that went on between us? Or does part of me just want the experience of being in a relationship with such a person.

At the rawest, I suppose its because I've never been told to wait. And I really dislike waiting. God I'm such a selfish bastard.

Paranoia

Never love a paranoid one, because he won't be able to sleep peacefully until he's sure you've reached home safe 

Never love a paranoid one, because he'll want to get into the good books of your father, and be friends with your mother

Never love a paranoid one because he will count the seconds you've been gone, and will know in a heartbeat if your attention has been divided

Never love a paranoid one because he won't believe you when you say 'I love you' for the first three times

Never love a paranoid one because he'll worry you suppress a cringe the first time you hold him

Never love a paranoid one because he'll get frustrated if he stutters while reading you excerpts from your favourite books

Never love a paranoid one because he will spend hours finding a recipe he knows you will like, and then laugh at what he baked because he's afraid you'll be disappointed

Never love a paranoid one because he will want you wholly, even all the hurt and shame you've neatly tucked away under your bed

Never love a paranoid one because he won't be able to sleep at night from thinking too much

Never love a paranoid one because he will wake up sweating in the middle of night knowing I fell asleep on unfinished matters

Never love a paranoid one because he will never quite fathom why he means enough to you to stay

Letters to the Moon

The moon is a funny thing, really. It is something shared by many people, but belongs to no one. Though it is there all the time, it is only experienced by those willing to subject themselves and bask in its glow. And while it celebrates a new romance between the couple on the sidewalk, gives solemn company to the lonely child in her room, and sheds sorrowful stardust over the lost soul of the man jumping off the bridge, we never quite know the secrets of the moon. The moon never complains, the moon never says. And yet there she is, without fail every night, spilling light on the world though we never quite notice. We never ask the moon, what's it like on your dark side?

And in this way, I suppose, you are like the child of the moon. After all, we are all made of stardust and particles of the universe, but I believe you have a greater part of you that's formed by fragments of the moon than anyone else I know.

And I know that you are the moon, and not everyone will find you intriguing. But that shouldn't faze you because it is not up to you to interest the hearts of those too busy staring at their feet. But you should know, there will be people, small clusters of people who gather round circles to tell stories about you as they sit under the great cosmos that they feel blessed to be a part of.

And I know that you are the moon, and you will often be forgotten as people trudge through the buzzing monotony of their lives. But you shouldn't worry, for when they get lonely or afraid of the dark, it is you to which they will turn and seek comfort. You are a constant, even when they forget, and let me tell you a secret: you're in all the favourite books that they read to their children when they cannot fall asleep at night.

And I know that you are the moon, and the weight of the world might sometimes be too heavy for your shoulders to bear. But never let that hurt you because it was never your fault that the world bore so many problems. But there are people, people like me, who write poetry about the craters on your skin, in pathetic hopes that small words will make up for this wretched world.

And I know you are the moon, and I know sometimes you're dealt with more than you can handle, but I know that you are strong beyond our wildest imaginations. And even when you're gone some nights, I hope you know that somewhere down on earth, there's a boy waiting for you with open arms and a little hole inside him where you should be. And I know that you're the moon, and that's extraordinary enough for me.

Number Four.

They always said that women make perfect killers. Well, no they didn't, I made that up. But there's something so allusive about a great woman that makes them ideal for the kill. The smarter they are, the more dangerous they are. They more beautiful they are, the more easily people fall prey. The gentler they are, the less traces they leave behind. And the greatest killers might be the ones who looks nothing more than just another girl next door.

He's always known the girl next door, maybe their moms were classmates in high school, or maybe he's written poems under the covers about her best friend for a year and a half. But he's never quite taken a second look at this girl because even though she was always there, she's always just, well, there. Now everybody likes a pretty girl, but this boy had his head way up in the clouds. He was drawn to the intelligence, strength, and resilience of the working lady, and in his mighty quest in courtship of such a specimen, he found himself galloping his horses some fine years ahead into the horizon. He cast his mind to a will of iron, and with it, he trudged forth into a land forbidden by worried mothers and fathers afraid of the lost. He took his tongue like the strings of a dusty violin, and tuned it so that each note rang out a like silken thread between an angel's lips. Tedious work never broke him, and a copious amount of sweat, blood, and tears poured into hours each day chiselled his body into a brazen statue carved by the worker of god himself. But this iron plated man and his powerful golden stallion never got the hand, nor did the heavy timber doors to the castle ever allow them to proceed, and eventually, they left, empty handed, a boy and his mere country horse exiled from the land of unrequited love and unforgiving chances.

How apt it was that it drizzled sheets of grey on the streets below his house that day when he felt his world crumble beneath his tired feet. The cool pane of glass he rested his forehead on gave a little breath of exasperation, not unlike his as he counted scores with the raindrops racing their way down his window. How strange is, his thoughts whispered, as he watched his neighbour peel her window open and, a little clumsily, made her way up on the window sill. She was small girl, about a head shorter than he was, and he wasn't very tall to begin with. She's climbing up to the roof, he thought. She had beaten feet, a dancer, maybe, but her precarious stature scampering up to her roof made him think twice about his judgements. Silly girl, his breath fogged up a circle on the window, who would climb up to the roof on a rainy day? I would, his mind confessed. A while later, another figure appeared next to her on the rooftop, a male from the appearance of it, and she shifted her posture slightly. Boyfriend, maybe. He didn't know why, but the gnarl of annoyance lulled at the pit of his stomach. Great, now another one enjoys sitting in the rain too.

Some people find comfort in solitude to get over a heartbreak, while others drowned themselves in alcohol to escape the sadness and for the boy, the window became his shot of morphine that made each day a little more bearable than the last. He watched as his neighbour spilled her mind with watercolour lines onto mounted canvasses that seemed almost larger than herself and scowled a little at all the forgotten art lessons he left behind in elementary school. He listened and cringed a little as she struck the chords on her guitar a little too loudly, and allowed himself to smile for the first time as he belted out words on his own guitar to songs he made sure he could play better than she did. And he felt, that night as the girl next door scrambled up to the roof once more, a dire urge he's never felt before. For the first time in his life, he pushed open the windows and took a deep breath. It was like a soft flutter of icy butterfly wings inside his lungs as his eyes adjusted to the deep blue hues of the night and shadows. Clumsily but hastily, he made his way up to his roof, feet a scramble of cluttered steps as he finally reached the top. How apt it was in that moment, that he looked up at the glowing heavenly body above him, when he heard her gasp "the moon!". 

And how lovely it was, joining the punctures in the sky's canvas, not a boy and a girl from next door, but children of a universe too complicated for them to understand, two souls in pursuit of simple happiness.

This Week

Good job this week. Don't let off the steam, don't burn out, just keep going at it one day at a time. Sure, you may be tired now, but take it day by day and the time will all pass eventually. You will get stronger. Just keep going. Heads up.

She can't keep any eye contact with you as it turns out.

The Ones That Couldn't Be

This post is just for you, and I hope it offers as much closure for myself in letting you go.

I just thought about it just now, funny, we could've been together half a year by now. A friend asked me, "do you still like her?" And my answer to that was "it's past the point of liking". After all, I suppose liking alone doesn't encompass caring about someone's happiness more than your own, wanting the best for them even if it's nothing to do with you, but that's exactly how I feel. Hence I wasn't lying when I said I'm more concerned with being friends, I really do just want to be in a position whereby I'm able to witness your growth as a person. Funny. I've fallen in love with you over and over again. It'll be hard to say I'm over you because it might just very well be in a cycle like how we are very well used to. With you, I find myself changing, growing. Since you, I've found myself grown. 

Backtrack one year and I find myself a selfish, happy go lucky, rebellious boy who honestly thought a relationship might be based off one's massive dependence on the other. After the break up with my ex girlfriend it seemed like I would never find another that I would love half as much. And then I met you. And of course it was nothing like love at first sight, you were the kinda nerdy bespectacled girl with straight As and full attendance and I was the alcoholic who barely turned up for any morning classes at all. But I talked to you, I got to know you, and I found myself getting drawn towards you day after day. 

The first time I fell for you didn't end well. I struck too fast, you were caught off guard, and you reeled back faster than I could catch you. We didn't speak for a few months then, each wary of the other. I ended up liking another girl, someone I would go home with every day, and I thought to myself, how convenient would it be to love someone who lives just a few stops down from you. We would take the bus past the town and occasionally drop by for dinner or a night movie or just a walk around the posh neon label shops. I remember how they'd say you should always take a girl to watch a horror film because she's mistaken the adrenaline rushes as love, and I guess it worked. We'd huddle on the bus when it was cold and the little droplets of condensation would race each other down the glass, and she'd fall asleep with her cheek on my shoulder and her arm around mine. But that was as far as it would go. I loved her more than she did me, and it just wouldn't work out. In her words, "you loved the wrong girl", and though at the time I never believed it, i suppose I must've known all along because the moment I confessed was the same moment I knew it was wrong. A few times when our fingers entangled I caught myself thinking about you, and I remember being so confused about it because I thought you were long gone. I was wrong, wrong. Always wrong.

It was then that we reached the peak of our friendship, you had a boy chasing you, and we were making plans on how to boycott a dinner without being too obvious. I should've seen it then, how you accidentally rested your head on my shoulder once and I jumped in surprise, how your hand lingered for a moment after you hit me, oh a rough one you were. I remember you stabbed me with a bottle for refusing to leave your seat. We'd argue, we'd always argue, and I've never quite liked arguing as much as I did with you. I remember that one lesson, where you had to go for a scholarship talk after and had to be in formal attire, and you wore this black dress. That black dress. Colour me cliche but I couldn't take my eyes of you if I tried. Friends said it was a tight dress but it wasn't just the dress and incredible just doesn't cut it. 

You were elegant, classy, and sexy in thick rim glasses and a tight dress. 

I was a puddle on the floor. 

I loved you in glasses, I've always loved you in glasses. These thick rim, a-little-bit-too-big-on-you glasses are my favourite, not that I've seen you wear many others, but these suit you. And I know you've always preferred to take photos without them on, and sometimes you forget about them until they slip off the tip of your nose, but I guess that's alright with me. And though by the time we got to clubbing for your birthday I was still holding back, I already knew you'd caught me by the cuff and got me reeling back.

The clubbing wasn't a very good experience. I was unaware and I wish I could renew the experience with you. I wish I had stayed awake longer that night when we were laying next to each other on Pam's bed. And I wish I knew then that you felt the same way toward me that I did towards you. You already knew then. You went ahead to ask your mother but she said no. And just like my ex girlfriend, you couldn't go on loving me for too long.

"If I'd wanted a fling with you, I would've stayed. But I wanted a forever, and that's why I'm leaving."

And that's exactly what happened with you as well. When you were in japan and I was in Italy, it was already over. We were in the afterglow of making love. That was the first time you scolded me after I didn't reply you for three days straight because I didn't have access to wifi, but you scolded me because you missed me. You and I were busy picking out dresses and shirts for each other when in fact we were just dressing up to leave. You and I on our own little trip, wishing we could be with other to make an adventure for two. You and I were maniacs in love, smiling at our phones in your sunrise, and my sunset, halfway across the world. But the afterglow will soon fade into monotonous routine, and as it did, our friendship struggled to exist. 

Today, I stand a different person. Watch you fret work after work has inspired me to be a responsible person, listening to how you struggled with your parents' divorce, leaving you to take the mom' role in the family, that taught me to take responsibility for my actions and my life. I've stopped drinking, I now work a double job, I'm engaging in competitions, and I'm taking responsibility for my education and my future. That's how you changed me. And I'm thankful for that, thankful for you, even if we only ever will be "just friends".

Jumping

I jump too fast. I find a person that I might be able to get close to, I immediately jump two feet in and next I know, I'm six feet underwater. I always blow it. I need to learn to slow down.

Thoughts

Sins don't start when you reach puberty. They begin when you become aware. You're aware that what you're doing is wrong, you understand why, but you do it regardless. The logic that it happens when you reach puberty is because the time lines intersect, nothing more. You can almost imagine it this way:

Man 1: so when are my wrongs considered sins?

Man 2: when you're aware of it

Man 1: and when exactly is that?

Man 2: can't say for sure, usually should be after you hit puberty

Man 1-world: your wrongs are sins once you hit puberty

It's so simple, how did I not realise all along.

Meeting the Ex

So..I ran into my ex yesterday in town. Twice actually, as if once wasn't surprising enough. If it didn't right out stun me, the incident was funny enough. Because my friend and I were talking about it over lunch, about how she's working in town now. And I was harping on about how we should accidentally drop by and like "oh what a surprise to see you here!" and making guesses as to how awkward it would be. That was lunch. 

Then we were walking towards the mall which she works at (just so happens) and we decided to go into a nearby building to walk around for a little bit. We weren't really looking for anything so yeah, we quickly wanted to get out, then my friend was saying something about some store in town having a 50% sale and the first thing I burst out with was 'edit' (shop my ex works at) and I just stopped there to laugh at myself for a bit and then I turned and "wtf." Because *waves magic fingers* there she was with 3 or so friends outside some accessory shop that she used to always go to for feather earrings and stuff. Call me stupid, but my first thought that my mind was conjuring things. So I turned to nudge my friend but as I was doing that, I heard her speak, and okay there's no mistaking that voice. I didn't know whether to laugh or be awkward but my heart just dropped dead and yaknow in all those stories where they talk about their knees going weak, yeah. So I just smiled and waved and so did she. Guess she must've been like "wtf" too cos she looked like I was the last person she wanted to see hahah.

I was pretty edgy after that, but I told my friend that actually I wanted to ask my ex for my book back. I really want that book back, I don't normally give out my books. But oh well the opportunity had passed so we went on to h&m to walk around. All throughout the walk around, my friend kept trying to knock my nerves out, kept nudging me unnecessarily and stuff. And then. As we were going down the escalator, my friend started going "editediteditedit" pretty loudly, thank goodness the escalator was facing the rear of the building, because when we made the u-turn to the exit, again. Again there she was, with just one friend this time. Even her friends look like her oh gosh. Same reactions. I never did ask for my book back, I was kinda muted really, couldn't bring myself to even say hi. 

Don't really know how to feel about the whole thing, I just feel..tired and like it was unreal cos we haven't met in so long. She was wearing a purple dress and the whole works, makeup (I usually meet her after school so I'm used to seeing her with and without), contacts (standard), and red hair (this is new to me). I looked like I got hit by a hurricane hahahah. She looks mature, like really really mature, it's as if I dated her when she was 16 and now she's 24. Still gives off that bitchy vibe hahah, I don't know maybe I feel it more now that I'm on the other side, but she looks like she's doing good, so that's good. Hey, I mean her mom let her get a job finally, that's some clearance too. But I really don't get the thing she wore(wears?) around her head that makes me think that she's gonna transform into some superwoman anime character anytime, not that it's for me to get anyway. But oh well, she's happy with her bf, and I'm happy with my women and many confusing stories and I'm just as happy taking my time with relationships so I guess it's a win-win situation.