The Beginnings (of Love).

It always happens to me.

The world stop spinning for a split second, long enough for him to take my breath away.
Our eyes meet. I hope he thought I was looking else where or perhaps believed it was a casual glance around the room.
He smiled sweetly.
I returned one of my own.

Time suddenly sped up to make up for being lost in this moment.
Reality rushed back into my awareness.
Panic in the vicinity of my consciousness.
My breath quickened.
Whilst somewhere inside of me, I sighed and fainted like the starstruck feelings of a pre-teenage girl in the presence of a celebrity.

I realised he was waiting…
oh right! My green tea.
He took my order and left as quickly as the air he had stole from my very lungs.

If he had noticed… then life cannot get more embarrassing.

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Embrace The Right Hand.

Oh, eternal night,
You are the spaces between light,
The half I could not see,
My living controversy,
Always beneath painting,
You in essence, lamenting.

A gentle caress,
Made our empty spaces last,
It was neither your hand nor whisper,
That made my heart whimper,
Sometimes simply your shoulder near mine,
Maybe when our fingers intertwine,
Or your kiss after we wake,
Or gratitude for when I bake,
Then again, it is every time,
Darling… mine.

You ponder of me woefully,
Concernedly,
Caringly…
It is love beyond our years, you see,
You are everything and more to me,
Even though you maybe imaginary.

I can only imagine you when I am small,
I can only touch you when I fall,
I can only hear you when I do not breath,
You can only be when I weep.

Always, you wish for me to seek light,
Remind me of those who will make me forget this plight,
Yet your dark embrace is what I remember,
As in my heart it remains yours – cold, wintery and always December.

Two Nights.

My dreams were terrible. The last two days, unfathomable, monstrosities of nightmares.

A girl was wrongfully accused and locked into a dirtied bathroom. It was a make-shift prison.

Shackled were her hands and feet to the pipes.

She was not alone.

A man. His eyes gleamed with murderous, ill-intent, the likes of which this girl, who lay bruised across the room, did not understand.

Her body instinctively buckled and told her to flee. She couldn’t.

Bones stuck out his ribs from vicious torture, caused by his own hands or others, I don’t know. The scars never healed.

Blood shot eyes and a malicious grin. He enjoyed watching his new plaything shiver in the corner of ‘his’ room.

So yes, some days I wake up from these kinds of dreams.

Closure at 21.

Pain. The ever growing head ache resonating underneath my fingertips, pressing into my forehead. I was not too sure whether it hurt more because of the growing pressure within or that I caused from the pressure of my fingers. It always hurts. Then the memories come flooding in. All of them like a million different versions of myself in every moment throughout the time I have lived, as well as the worries of a future I imagine. I feel all of it at once. The pain. The anguish. The hurt. Not only in my head but also my heart.

Then my mind always returns to that instance. The kitchen. I was twelve. Alone. A kitchen knife in one hand and a choice in another.

It was a beautiful day outside. ‘If there was such a day to do this, this would be the best time…’ I thought at that moment.

It seemed like the world held a long breath. The wind paused for a moment. There was no traffic passing by. Quieting of the usually creaking house. Everything was still for this moment like it was the most important choice that would change the world. Maybe that was true to some extent. Even though I had not died that day… apart of myself did. I lost something that I am trying to regain now.

It was not until recently I realised what it was.

Hope.

The drive to live that exists in everyone around me.

I remember the years that followed. It seemed like a blur. Not truly existing but just there. My dreams back then were filled with chaos, destruction and death. My family dying around me in flames to dreams of suddenly waking up one day to find I was the only person on earth. Maybe through those dreams, you could say, I regretted not taking my life. Many times I felt jealous, even envious or those who had the ‘courage’ to do so even if it was in my dreams.

Though truly in my heart, I did not believe any of it. I knew there was so much more than the feelings of that moment, any moment. Whether it was that time I took the knife to every moment I felt the pain resonating from my head or heart, I knew there was so much more. Though you could say I hoped… That in the end, I never lost hope. I never lost an integral part of my humanity. I never became anything else but myself. I never lost the truth of what I was. I just chose to not see. Whilst as much as I was born into the circumstances of suffering, I chose to suffer even more so afterwards.

So many have said I am too harsh on myself. Strangers. Friends. Family. Psychologists.

It is who I am.

I am who I am.

The things that happen would have always happened as I am who I am and no one else. I say this with acceptance this time and not with regret, conceit or hatred for myself. An acceptance perhaps also frustration, sadness, a longing to connect with myself a long time ago and even now.

The relationship with myself has never been the best.

I chose to look outwards into the relations I had with others and blamed myself for every shortcoming whether my own or not. It was a misunderstanding, lack of acceptance of who I am that caused hatred. A sense of wanting to be perfect. Also, I had to learn it the hard way that no matter how the best of intentions one may have, the best outcome might not always occur. There is no perfect choice to create a fairy tale ending. I have to move beyond the boundaries of myself, the vision of perfection and accept all the imperfections myself as a human being.

Most importantly acknowledge the essence of myself – the innocent, idealistic part of myself which has never been tarnished by my own hands or others. It is this part of myself that believes conflicts that happen between now and a utopia that will eventually comes, is only the stepping stones of what naturally will occur without anyone’s influence. It has kept me sane all these years. It is a part of me as I am who I am.

I am beginning to understand and accept myself, in the hopes that improving my relationship with myself will help others as well. Though that does sound a bit arrogant. I wish there was a better way of writing about myself with using ‘I’, personally I do not prefer writing this way. (Insert grumpy face).

Anyways, cheers to achieve inner peace and all that.

Hm, it is indeed a life long journey that is filled with many challenges and influences.

Unclosed, a chapter.

Between wars.

Floating in a space of fluidity that i had no name for.

I am freed… for now.

No longer bound by a light with its own darkness shadows but also ungrounded by its security – its ineviable fate.

I knew its end before I accepted it. No matter the tragedy and sadness, I knew it well. Drew comfort in a shadow I spoke to often.

It is humorous how we as humans are drawn to things that hurt… amongst other things.

Accept it.
Free yourself.
Be bound by another.

Prehaps that will be another day.

Prehaps a kind of love.

Clarity.

Sitting on the train I looked at myself reflected upon the window beside my seat.
There are others reflected but let it be about just yourself for a second.

Imagine that person your seeing as a completely different person.
It’s frightening at first but why? It is because it could be the beginning of a horror story where your reflection moves without you? Haha. Or is it because what you have to do, to separate you from your idea of who you are, is scary? It is a comfort zone I did not realise I had – individuality; a personal relationship with yourself.

By attempting the above, I realised the things that keeps me centered me to who I am. The positive things like the loves I have for those around me to the negatives (my doubts) to physical attributes like my glasses.

Moving beyond myself is difficult and some may question why is it necessary. Well, I do not know myself but I feel as if I will never be beyond that point however I can only try. To what end, that I also do not know.

Take Flight.

It is like without wings again. When truth seeks to hide, a piece of myself rots corroding memories and a part of my heart.
They don’t understand because it is the shadows I speak to when all is quiet.
That pain hurts but it seeks us to move away and forward.
That it is love that dwell in my every thought christening my movement across the world.

It is bigger steps than I could imagine. Over mountains of desire, oceans of thought and across the experiences of different worlds.

All the while, those who cry out below and besides my large steps, are those whom my heart resides in. They wail for one who understand but not one who speaks truth.  I can only walk on …

So on my shoulders sits a heavy burden.

They tie their stones to my feet. They seek to bound me in their own prison.

Their cries reach the heavens where my mind hides. It shields my heart as I leave them.

The hands and minds of those few who understand my true purpose are calloused beyond repair. We are bruised. We are victims. We all have brought this upon ourselves, this is our intention.

So throughout this journey to another side we are here, I am not alone. I am not. I am not.

There in which I glance upon the scars left upon my feet, shoulders, back and the tips of my fingers. I hear them coming again as their march as loud as thundering clouds.
I do not fear for I know their love.
I do not quicken my pace for I respect their comfort in ignorance and admire their unwillingness to change.
I will not yield to foretell a truth when they are not ready, for they own sake…
Yet the burden grows heavier. Their cries unyielding, unending, continuous and loud as their heart pleas for lies.

Love is the only gift I can give, one that will become their salvation if they accept it. But they do not understand once again. My love for them angers because it reminds them of their own scars and prisons. Whether it is a mother’s hate, a father’s abandonment, a child’s envy, they have imprisoned themselves rather than that of the past they hold on to.

Yes, for a instant, I had sought forgiveness through solitude. K.C. taught me first to open my eyes to my own lie. There was no forgiveness in forcing a kind of self-punishment and there is no burden greater to carry but the forgiveness I lacked in myself.

It was something they also did not understand. I had forgiven myself long ago, as well as the cruelty they accuse me of.

My pain, sorrow, regret, guilt and love for them showers them in memories I left behind.

At the end of this cycle, whether am I wise or a coward? Kind or cold? Self-aware or arrogant? It is not important.

No one has won and all have lost; we are still present, alive and human.