Archive for August 2016

Foggy Forest

Tuesday, August 30, 2016 Comments Off

There are days when I just want to be tucked away in the corner of a small cafe in the middle of a large city somewhere in Europe. Half sleepy, with bleary eyes and oversized sweater, drinking mad amount of hot tea, while my eyes focused on the dancing raindrops on the window. All I want is the blissfulness that I had experienced many Summers ago—a life separated from the one I lead now.

I can still remember the feeling whenever I take a look at certain shop's ambience; those exposed bricks with metal furniture, or white on white interiors, or homemade baked goodness with the smell of coffee brewing in the background. There is a particular feeling of kinship whenever I come across establishments that offer a kind of relief from homesickness for a past life. They simply understand the need to recreate an experience, the need to imitate something in order to almost become a life removed from the one in here. But it is what they could only be: an imitation, a copy, an almost.

I no longer find the strength to settle with an almost, a replica. There should never be a question to which the answer is settling down with an approximate. How could there be such thing? It should not exist except in the minds of the wanting. Though wanting has always made people feel inadequate, weak, and helpless.

Maybe I have always missed breezy days ever since before I knew that separated life. There has always been this particularly nagging feeling that I should experience something more than explosions of scent and sight. I have always longed for softness, foggy forest, pale sun, breezy summer, tenderness, candles, silk, afternoon cake and tea, and minimalist designs; a kind of life that is alien to the one I grew up with where everything was amplified to the point of suffocation. Longing for a life that I constantly search for amidst the blaring sound of car honking, street seller's shouting, and police sirens; wanting to be nestled between the taste of snow on your lips and the concert of pine trees.

A contrast, is what I have been searching for.

But, unfortunately, life has its own wicked way to let you know that you cannot force fate.

Collection of Recollections, Part V: Inebriated

Wednesday, August 10, 2016 Comments Off

I have been denied
inside jokes,
shared intimacy
for far, far too long—
that a momentary glance,
unsavoury touches,
drunken exchanges
felt like
acceptance, acknowledgement,
dejected and intoxicated note of a twenty two years old

it was another saturday night spent with overflowing red and pink drinks, and a lovely company. it was different this time around, maybe since it was nearing the famous february fourteenth, or maybe the bartender actually had a mind reading ability, but he managed to perfectly created two powerful potions that suited us both that were decorated with roses and seahorses: the embodiment of our most beloved love stories. or perhaps the universe has a funny way of telling me that i could only find romantic endeavour in the shape of something inanimate. though i have to say, if romantic love tasted like that, i wouldn't mind drinking it all in one single gulp. come to think of it, maybe that is the only way i can taste romantic love on my lips: bittersweet, in an alluring packaging, and made me feel heady, lightheaded and honest. it made me want to just be wrapped in the warmth of someone that's true, strong, and steady. — roses and seahorses

what you seek
cannot be found at the end
a wine bottle, or
his smirk, or
the smallest circumference of your waist, or
payment check, or
romantic novel, or
your favourite flower's bud, or
mariana trench, or
this sentence.
it is inside you
all along  camouflaged

we, he said. as if it meant anything anymore. as if it was a currency that could be used in this conversation. it cringed me how much that word became irrelevant to my ears. years had passed without me finding the need to use that particular word when i explain anything related to me and him. it was buried underneath all the fossils of our mementos. no longer was it put on pedestal for everyone to see; it did not bloom the way it was during his regimen in my heart. it was effectively dead. he grimaced when i denied the existence of it, of an exclusivity that two people had established. there was nothing more and nothing less about it. why bringing up the dead? i urged him to drown it, drown everything, sink the mothership with a touch of ice and a whole bottle of whiskey. burn the word, set it aflame until it was nothing but the ashes of your cigar. bury it, entomb it unmarked so there was no remembrance of the word, we lost, and remain as such
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