I have the weirdest dreams ever.

Okay, so last night, I had another weird dream. Out of four dreams, this is the one that's the most comfortable talking about. It's not exactly weird per se, but it's kind of amusing and sad at the same time. 8D


I was with the younger self of my muse, with her long hair stuck up in a ponytail and kept neat with a hairband. Well, not exactly her younger self, but younger in a metaphorical sense. We were in our school uniform, and we were walking through a tunnel-like structure across a body of water. I wasn't really sure if it was a lake or an ocean, but for an ocean, it was pretty small. The structure was made of light, polished wood with clear glass windows that bordered its walls, showing the calm cerulean waters mingling with early sunrise mist, panning out to the tall, looming mountains in the distance. People traveled to and fro inside the tunnel, minding their own business through soft chatter and a brisk pace.


My muse and I haven't been talking about anything in particular. We were giggling and smiling about something, but after a while we became awfully quiet. Instead we became more focused on reaching our destination at the end of the tunnel. Then, out of the blue, I inched closer to my muse and reached for her hand. I interlaced my stubby fingers with her delicate ones. We walked in silence, fingers intertwined. 


It's weird that I grabbed her hand, right? Right. But it's a thing of the past, and besides, I used to do that with someone.


We continued walking until we reached our destination at a place that looked like a stone temple. Just as we bounced down the steps, she turned to me and said, "I'm sorry, but I don't love you that way." Awkwardly, she smiled a toothy grin at me and batted her eyelashes. I blinked once and pursed my lips. "I'm from the future, and you'll love me this way," was all I said. "Oh, really?" She laughed softly and swung our hands higher and higher. I only smiled at her as she lead the way. 


Gaaah this is so weird.

What did I just write

It's funny how over the past few days my emotional state has been spiraling down. 


It simply just happens. I take my mind off a couple of things through means of leisure like watching Dog Whisperer or The Walking Dead or by talking to other friends to keep the loneliness at bay. But for some reason, the abyssal gap left inside me can never be satiated fully; the hunger never stops, it can only be satisfied for such a short while. 


Then I begin to cry. The tears keep coming like grief and anger on a conveyor belt that stretches on and on. Memories come next. A plethora of guilt-inducing moments that make me sick with unhappiness. I try to comfort myself with the nicer memories, but most of the time, the bad memories trump all the good ones. It's a futile internal struggle. Sometimes, I cry so much I eventually become tired of being sad. Instead, I become indifferent and angry. 


Last night, I cried for a good one hour. And I'm not exaggerating. 


Ugh. I'm so emotionally unstable. 


And I feel so alone.

I shouldn't be writing about things like this

It's been a while since I've last written something. I want to write again. 


But what's the point of writing if all I write is about you?


I'm trying to move on. But what tugs at me every day and night, leaving me no repose, not even in slumber, is the fact that we could have been. We could have been so many things if we took the paths not taken. We could have been lovers, really, if I had said yes to you that fateful November evening. 


But I didn't. I said no.


We could have still been friends, if that "confidante" whom I so trusted before had shut her mouth before telling every person in class about our past experiences. 


But she didn't. Suddenly, everyone knew about us.


Every day and every night, I always haunted by those memories of love that could have lead us to so much more.


Yes, we could have been.


But that's too late now. 


It's hard for me to let go. But I should. Because I know that you're gone. And there's nothing to wait for anymore. Nothing to hope for anymore. Just...nothing. 


I'm empty without you. But who cares?


No one does.

Fairytale

Once upon a time

when I loved you

my sad and lonely hand

will long and search and find yours,

ever so fragile and so gentle

waiting to have and hold mine,

waiting to mold our fingers

together

leaving no parting spaces

in between,
not wanting to let go.

Once upon a time

when I loved you

springtime beamed from your 

lovely little face;
golden brown feathers rustled
and perfectly complimented

the bloom of your lips,

a sweet, morning bud pink

which blossomed so beautifully,

transfixing the sunbeams in your smile

reflecting eternity

in the sunrises and sunsets of your

earthen brown eyes.

Once upon a time

when I loved you

I used to have you and hold you

in my love hungry arms

only fed and satisfied by the

smoldering embers of passion that burn

ever so softly, deftly, and brightly

warmly and longingly

gently and sweetly

in your long, everlasting embraces.

Once upon a time

when I loved you

these dusty, neglected lips of mine

ached and longed and desired

to give you only the best

of my virgin kisses,

drunk and plump with

ecstatic fantasies 

and carefree daydreams

and youthful love songs

harmonious with the melodies

of the I-love-yous
that we always sang.


But now, once upon a time
is now over. Those
fragile and gentle hands of yours
now only look like gnarled claws
scratching and ripping and tearing me apart
already so hurt and so harmed
with scars of regret
with cuts of rage and sorrow
with wounds of anguish
leaving me bloodied and defeated
in this battle of love.


Once upon a time
is now over.
Winter and autumn clash over 
the springtime of your face.
Dry, crumpled leaves match 
the wilted, frostbitten blossom 
of your now dark and poisoned lips,
drained of the springtime palette,
leaving nothing but the wrath of
the raging blizzard
to make endless voids of your
ice dagger eyes. 


Once upon a time
is now over.
I grow weary of 
the deathtrap that lies in your embrace,
hungry for bloodshed and ironic revenge.
I am gullible and stupid
like many trapped prey
to succumb to that old, useless passion;
fire burning and catching
in those arms of yours,
longing and waiting for your gentle touch
only to find myself
locked under the strangle of your
writhing hands.


Once upon a time 
is now over. Singed
are my lips, cut out is 
my tongue, for having
kissed you and loved you,
now a crime of treason
to you. The same lips
which used to sing of
our blissful love songs,
and whisper sweet nothings
into my fragile ears,
spit only poison
and pointed daggers
and God-forbidden curses
which strike my head
and my broken heart.


Once upon a time
when I loved you
you were my forever.
But now,
in this once upon a time,
I can only question
what forever really meant.

Untitled poem on the night of April 9

I pick up pieces of your

s h a t t e r ed

being, like broken mirrors

of a hundred, thousand

reflections of fake

m a s q u e r a d e s.

I can't even begin to comprehend this.

Ahh. I'm having trouble writing this in paragraph form, so here it is in bullet form.

• We used to wrap our arms around each other in warm and loving embraces, not a care in the world if people were watching and gawking at us with snake-like glares or curious cat eyes.
• My arms would be around your neck and yours would be clutching above my waist. Your head's on my shoulder while I gently snuggle mine next to the feathers of your hair.
• The scent of your cologne is so distinct and strong. I inhale it and find comfort in the familiarity of your smell.
• I used to give you light kisses on your hair. I liked feeling those brown feathers rustle beneath my course lips. 
• When seated, I'd embrace your waist and look up at you with adoring eyes. 
• You used to rest your head on my lap and I'd stroke your hair and silently hum you a lullaby.
• Whenever I'm seated next to you, I wrap my arms around yours and cling to it for a long time.
• You'd rub your head against me, with all those feathers on top of your head messily mashed together. I'd eventually hug you or do the same and we would end up snuggling, interlocked in an embrace.
• Sometimes, I would extend my hand towards you, fingers wriggling and searching, then you would inch towards me and surrender your hand for me to hold.
• I used to run my hands through your hair and then rest my head on top of yours.
• When I'm standing, I would wrap my arms around your neck or your shoulders, placing my chin on the crown of your head.
• One time, you rested your head on my shoulder. I placed my head on top of yours. We stayed like that for such a long time. And I didn't bother even if you were burning up for some unknown reason (you weren't sick that day).
• You went home early once without bidding me goodbye but you left me a small message: "A big hug for you"
• We would greet each other good mornings and goodbyes, coupled with short hugs from me.
• We used to call each other, even for the smallest things.
• You always went to me for comfort. Always me.

That's mostly what I recall about our relationship. So intimate. So intimate it's disgusting. Yet sweet. 

Book or Bore?

I love the feeling I get when I read a good---no, great book. I could read for many straight hours without tiring from it or getting bored by the very sight of the words strung together on the pages. There's always an exhilarating thrill when I jump from one paragraph to the next, and my hungry eyes prowl the succeeding pages for more satisfaction. It's usually the story that draws me in, sweeping me off my feet with drastic twists and elements made desirable with unconventional characters and fractured themes and morals. But it's the writing style that keeps me interested. I don't like it when the story goes downhill just because the writer scribbles across the pages like a bore. The book, from the general elements down to the last, minuscule details, needs to be intricately, carefully, yet lovingly crafted in order to be a pleasure to read.

* * *

Don't judge me!

Wala lang. I've been on a literary binge to keep the pain at bay. Writing and reading great books help a ton. I'm beginning to read Catching Fire, and I have to say, so far so good. :)

My muse comes at 6

You are my all; 

my sweet dream. 

So sweet, lethal, 

and so

deathly beautiful.

Intoxicating

you are.

So very intoxicating,

like deadly yet 

sweet, drunken

poison 

on my tainted, 

kissed lips.

* * *

I know it sucks, I just thought of it on a limb. But nonetheless it's my muse at work. So umm, here's an unheard thanks to you. But if you see this, you know who you are. :| :)

Remnants of a memory on a sunny morning in October

I remember you so fondly. So very, very fondly.


I remember holding you so tight. I clasped you close to my chest, not minding if you were suffocating and constricted under my grasp but rather making sure that you would not think of the idea of me letting you go. I held onto your neck in a warm embrace, even if you were too disoriented to reciprocate my hug. I pulled you closer to me, and I started to rock you gently while we were on our feet. It was then did I notice that we were in an awkward dancing position, waltzing to the music of your hushed cries. 


Yes, you were crying that early morning.


Your heart was aching. 


The white of your eyes were now a bloodshot red from sore crying. But it was not the red that I had noticed all so well. Like muddy, trodden earth were your deep set irises. They churned with emotions like tumultuous ocean waves in a storm. They pleaded with me with silent whispers of longing solace. I couldn't look away from your beautiful, glossy eyes; they seemed to draw me into the everlasting comfort of earthen brown.


I still recall all those small details. Your small, shaky voice futilely trying to make sense of all this chaos. The clammy, pale hands covering your tear stained face. The sleeveless, dirty blue jacket that clung to your shivering body. The rapid rise and collapse of your chest, breathing with drowned out lungs gasping for air. Your wavering yet warm breath on my neck. Your rigid body now hunched, slowly sinking into and surrendering to the warmth and comfort of mine.


And yes, the soft, brown feathers on your head. They bounced and shook each other with each slight movement. 


How could I forget?


I kissed you lightly on the feathers of your hair. They ruffled softly under the sheer weight of my lips.


In that everlasting moment, time had stopped for the two of us. And yet in the comforting silence of eternity, I will always remember the one thing that defined that moment for us.


I will never forget hearing--no, feeling your heartbeat.

* * *

I was laying on my bed when I hazily remembered that memory of you. I'm not sure if it came out the way I wanted to, but I'm really, really pleased with some of the descriptions. Especially the feathers...The Book Thief inspired me to use that metaphor. Hihi.

Meh.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I hurt you.

I regret hurting you, on purpose or by accident.

I shouldn't have said those things. Guilt is just eating me up by the second.

Do all you want to me. Slap me, curse me, torment me, humiliate me, mock me. Bring me to my knees, defeated and at your mercy.

I know it's too late, but please.

Please don't leave me.

* * *

Shortest post ever. I can't stop feeling guilty and desolate, even if I occupy myself with lots of things. This just sucks. :/

Words

You really knew me that well, didn't you?


That I had a way with words. That I loved to write. 


That writing was my passion.


It's really clever of you to use words to hurt me, mock me, and torment me. To make me feel guilty, disgust me, enrage me, sadden me. To disappoint me.


I never thought that your sweet, little mouth would be capable of unleashing such repulsive and foul words. It's funny though, I shouldn't be surprised. You were always accustomed to swearing, but this, what do you call this?


This is awful. 


It's sad. The same mouth which said all those sweet nothings before has become a fuel factory for mockery and shameless cursing. The same mouth which used to call me tenderly by my motherly nicknames has began to brand me with despicable lies and cruel titles.


What have you become? 


I always held you on top of a pedestal, and despite all the hurt and regret that had exchanged between us, I still refuse to pull you down from my high respect for you, and I still wish to hold onto you. But what happened to you? You are no longer the friend, the child I had grown to love. 


You give me so many reasons to give up.