Signs of prophecy, they mocked. An active imagination, her mother deliberated kindly.

But she knew what she saw, from the moment she shut her eyes at night, her back sinking into the sponge, as though she were laying upon another’s supple body, ready to accept the contour of her spine. Images of lovers, jealousy, nostalgia, murder and deceit. The images that flooded her mind were not those of rainbows or angels – this made it even harder to distinguish reality from dream when she awoke to the jarring noise of her alarm clock, and the powder blue uniform hanging on the knob of her closet door. Sometimes she wondered if another world would reveal itself to her, behind the dark recesses of her cupboard, behind the aged dresses she no longer wore and the dark coats kept for winter holidays which never came.

Her heart was seduced by these phantasmal interims, not just her eyes. She began to believe these stories she was in, and sometimes returned from them feeling the pangs of heartbreak. The line between dreams and reality was a mere projection of laser beam, thin and deadly as a poisoned needle. She often thought of crossing it, risking getting singed by the rays of pure energy; but once crossed, she may never be able to make her way back.

And that is what all humans fear – leaving behind the familiar.

[... what was i thinking? help, i can't finish it now. that's the problem with me. whenever i start stories, i find myself running out of content to fill the spaces in between.]

i think the problem with me is that i never dare to throw myself completely into a story. i am scared to give my heart, my very being to my writing, fearing i would return scarred from the tragedies which may come. for once i write, the scenes, the characters transfigure into things so real and become a part of me, just as a part of me was taken the minute i put pen to paper. a small bit of me is immortalized or incomplete in every poem i start and every essay i undertake. in turn, i dare not to bare my soul, even to myself, or maybe, especially to myself. there are certain parts of me i know are there but i wish to deny and put off discovering. and there are certain parts i fear to discover. poetry is when the soul is most naked, and most of the time, when i read my past writing, i grimace at the amount of myself i have exposed.

now what exactly triggered that immensely personal and morbid train of thought.. here i am, not in school and missing the acjc talk. i'm reading too much percy shelley and a.e housman for my own good. yes, love poetry! emily dickinson and robert herrick indeed. how i wish to be romanced by such poets, in the form of secret notes and scented manuscripts. but never will i find a boy with ink-stained hands and enough sense to know it is best to chase a girl with shakespeare's sonnets and not his own [okay, i'm just kidding. original poetry, no matter how daft -shudders at bachelorette contestant ryan sutter's efforts-, is welcome too. at least it's an attempt].

suddenly i have this horrible image of the computer lapsing into decay, and all my writing and poetry being lost in manner of archives [of course i have my book of messily written poetry, but it is not the same] being abolished because diaryland has run out of money. i'm such a vashti. but my writing is all i really have in the world, all i can really say is mine, because sometimes, even my heart and mind is not my own.

Oh, when I was in love with youThen I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.

And now the fancy passes by
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they'll say that I
Am quite myself again.

a.e housman

suddenly i'm feeling very lost and confused and with every thought i feel tears creeping closer. it must be the hormones. yet at the same time, i'm suddenly feeling this incredible yearning, for someone to take my hand and walk with me [not behind, not in front but beside me] into the deepest, darkest depths of my soul. someone that will stay at my side and not let go even if things get warped and scary, because i know i'm unable to discover myself alone. i'm feeling ready for this emotional rollercoaster of dips and highs, be it through myself or through another.

what am i saying.

+ posted by M @ 12:08 PM