a warning, a goodbye

I must warn you: I am a book no stranger to impossible. I possess words that are so foolishly entwined that reading me shall surely scathe your time. Hence, I highly recommend that you drop me, and look for other books that are not in turmoil.

Go, now.

Leave.

Did I stutter?

I said, leave.

A stubborn reader, I see.

Allow me to further delineate what you will to venture:

My verbs are sloths sleeping on a bright day, and my adjectives are the dull moments after the rain. My metaphors are flies captured by a Venus Flytrap — weak, fragile, but furious.

My sentences only seem to end; they rarely begin. In fact, most of me is an ending — the paragraphs, the phrases, the words, the letters, the period. I am an ending that continues for a lifetime of pages — you would surely wish to begin. You would seek for the once upon a time, but I am both a maze and a waterless desert; the moment you come near is the time you thirst to leave.

I am not impossibly incomprehensible.

You would thirst and crave for comprehension like a lunatic seeking for sanity; you shall only find madness in me.

So leave my dusty covers on the corner where you have found me. Seek the rational, tales that do not endlessly end.

Seek comprehension.

Seek the possible.

Seek

 

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Attics and Orange Juices

A writer is the sum of his/her experiences.

As a writing enthusiast, I decided to have an unforgettable night.

(This is a product of both fiction and reality)


Last night, I found myself grasping a bottle of beer, strangers filling up the void that surrounded me. I stared at them as they danced to the lively music, letting the alcohol steal my wheel. The drink flowed faster in my thoughts than it did in my blood, and the music slowly got louder. I stood up, and in a blink of an eye, I blended with the crowd, raising our fists and swaying our hips to every beat.

I need more ‘orange juice’.

I need to fly as I crawl back to the filthy attic within my core.

Oh look at the stool on the wall!

Look at the void stored in this hidden place.

I think I need the ‘red goat milk’ in that shot glass.

I think I need to fill this up with meaning.

This is the best night of my life.

Blank. I feel blank.

 

Space and murmurs.

Awake.

Oh look at all those pineapple juices.

Running.

Oh wow, we are bumper cars!

Time blurring.

Read my watch! Read my watch!

 

The world merging,

Strangers.

Questions.

Tears.

Gone.

Awake.

I finally reached home, the warmth of silence taking over the cold of the void. I had a cup of coffee, looking at the busy highway that indifferently existed across the road. By that time, I already found myself trapped in that attic filled with cobwebs and dust. It was a lonely place that made me wish I had more ‘orange juice’. I tried to find any means of escape, but with only coffee in my hand, I knew I was doomed.

 It began with simple questions that asked the what’s: What exactly was my goal this night? Was it really for the benefit of (my poor) literature or was it another desperate attempt to patch the bruises in my core? Very slowly, the questions became how’s and why’s until every thought converged like a wide paper crumpled to its smallest size.

With my brain fueling itself, I then realized how some of us resort to temporary bursts of ecstasy to fill the attics of our permanent reality. Time does not wait for anyone and surely, these bursts of ecstasy would create wonderful memories to look back to. But for people like me who hid attics in their damaged brains, the question of whether or not escapism would successfully keep us from jumping off an 18-storey building lingered.

The skies became blood.

With the hint of a new day breaking, I found myself grasping an empty cup of coffee, waiting in that attic for a source of light.

Perhaps another ‘orange juice’?

 

Mr. D

what-do-you-call-a-group-of-butterflies_9c22bc6a-82b6-4b73-8536-3844052edf82

Source: Google images. Photo not mine.

#MentalHealthAwareness

When hope has disappeared from all the eyes can see, I resort to what one can hear: poetry.

Right now, my fingers gently tap against the seemingly exhausted keyboard, forming words that silently resonate inside my head. I honestly don’t know if this will – at any point- make any sense; I just know that writing is supposed to be something that will free me from the chains of reality, from all the cruelty that my eyes embrace but my ears could no longer tolerate.

I am exhausted. I feel like a swarm of beautiful butterflies that peacefully plays in the air has suddenly been engulfed by a one-eyed monster named Mr. D. One might not believe how my eyes can stay open despite such an unimaginable cruelty. But my ears – oh my ears- plead for deafness as all the colors crush between Mr. D’s venomous canines, and as the little ones silently scream, begging with their last breath for help.

Help us, help us. The sound only fades into the horizon until they’re no more.

But I can’t do anything. All I can do is escape by pretending that the swarm of butterflies still linger against a bright, blue sky, resorting to metaphors that try to salvage what has been unjustly taken away.

Mr. D, Mr D, let us free.

Mr. D, have you no mercy?

Mr. D…

Mr. D…

Mr..

It’s useless.

My reality has become fantasy.

Do you see the butterflies?

Who am I?

Source: Google Images. Photo is not mine.

For those who easily judge the depth of the river by sight, and who struggle coping with the river currents. 

This is my fifth jeepney tale.


I am

a plane without a pilot

always stirring towards jeopardy,

 and circling the sky without control

but with direction.

I am

a puppet without a master,

speaking against its own will

and dances despite its utmost reluctance,

but presents itself intelligibly.

I am

an eternal poem without an author,

extending infinitely with words

blending with such violence,

but later proves to be a

masterpiece in an unending progress.

I am

perhaps who they call “lost”

or the one who is momentarily

“confused”.

I am

who they describe to be in a

“poignant phase”

or in a

“period of exploring”.

But

But beyond the scope of their thinking,

the name-calling, and the

incomprehensible paradoxes,

I rest with the fact that

I am someone

who is driven

by a melancholic absence.