For the night is dark and full of dreamers ♥

Where are You?

This one  is inspired by Victoria Schwab’s Monsters of Verity series. Like Kate, I have found the theory of infinite parallels to be somewhat comforting– that somewhere I made a different path for myself. If  you are strange, or mad or monstrous and if you feel lost inside yourself, then this book series is for you. It gave me a remedy when I needed one.

Where are you? I asked myself as I hugged my knees and continued rocking myself in the darkness of my room. Crying. I despise crying. I found it weak to present such a vulnerable state even to those who knew me.

“At a countryside where I can watch everything unfold like a film without being a character in any of it. With books and silence to keep me company.  I am not tired at last.”

Where are you? I asked myself as I saw them all leaving, one by one, taking their goodbyes with them. I felt them gave up like the final strike of a blunt blade on a string– eventually it breaks. They all do.

“In a cottage found in an island at the middle of the ocean. I can hear the waves receding and crashing, muting the turmoil in my soul. I look up at the star-laden sky above and find the patches of darkness in between them to be a comfort. Simplicity and contentment. Here no one finds me. Here no one leaves.”

Where are you? I asked myself as I failed again. I feel pathetic to desire someone else’s approval. I feel like a hypocrite telling others I don’t have to. I can feel anger and disappointment swelling inside me. Scream, it says. Tell others how you hate yourself, it says. And don’t forget to tell them you hate them for forcing you to. I closed my eyes. Where are you? Where are you? 

” In a foreign land, far, so far from where you are. I am in my own office and as I look outside, I see merchants and customers trying to bargain and mothers tagging along their children and couples having a fight as well as couples taking pictures of  each other. I see life passing each minute. I hear the clinking of glass downstairs, hear the merriment, hear the violin even with the chaos of the street. I feel alive. I feel inspired to write  a book. A happy one. I am a writer like what I wanted. Free to create a world of my own finally.”

And where are you now? I asked as I write this. I feel the emptiness inside me. I feel everything then nothing. It’s a cycle I can’t seem to get out from.

“Here. ” I sighed. ” Unknown to many and to myself, yes. But here, where I can pour my heart out, where I pretend that it is okay to be hurt and be human. Here, where I am not alone yet still lonely. Because I made this human choice to live and care despite feeling like a monster. Not yet happy but trying to be. Hoping to be. “

“Still here. Just here.” I whispered.


To the Cursed People

 I am writing this letter because in days like today, I would  have been glad to know that somewhere, someone felt what I felt.

It is a curse to feel everything so permanently in a world of temporary things and temporary bonds. In the end, they left when they thought I left. In the end, no one asked and no one listened. And it was unfair, isn’t it? Because someone should’ve asked. Someone should have listened. Someone should have cared. But here you are and here I am– worlds away and with no one to talk to about how we are drowning while others are breathing. They never really understood how I don’t want to die but also not want to live. Dying would make others unhappy, no matter how few, and force them to remember the goodness in me that I never saw in myself. And living, living will make me unhappy. Suicide would require me to defile what I am and continuing my life would require me to cherish what I am. I just want to not exist. I want to erase who I am. I want every trace of me wiped out from the memory of this world. Do you also feel that? The need to stop the pain, the need to hear the silence and the need to feel forgotten for just a moment. Because I am tired of pleading for someone to save me, to hold me longer, to never give up only to realize that I have the burden of carrying all those tasks by myself, for myself. I am tired of being tired. I guess we’re cursed, you and I, because we wish to stop when time urges us to go further and demands us to heal ourselves. And so I go on, never okay and never will be, like the flowing river water from the mountains until one day, I’d reach that point, that convergence of everything I’ve suppressed– the fall, a drop so high from where I am. At the end it’s this choice, to die or to live, because no matter how much we wish for it, we could never just not exist. Because this cruel world won’t allow that. So we either fall and end it there and have our peace or to keep fighting our way to the ocean, to hope that someone in that vast world will care enough, even though it will kill us one day, drown us more than we’re already drowning.

I am here with you. If there is no way out then be glad to know that someone’s drowning with you. At least there, we’re not so alone as we feel today.

The Only Answer

I am tired.

And I know it’s not an answer to the questions you ask about me nor it is the answer to the ones that gnaws at me. It is not the yes  or no to the texts that say ‘Are you alright?’ or ‘Are you angry?’. Nor I know it is not the reason that you want to hear after asking why am I sad or why am I crying or why am I silent. I know it’s not the answer you would like to listen to when you want to understand what’s going on even when I, myself, don’t know. I know it’s not supposed to be the ending reply of a conversation. It’s not the answer to your concerns. It is not the answer that I should give to myself. But it’s the only answer I can offer, the only explanation that my heart can take and my mouth can try to explain. To you and to me.

If only I had the courage to.

So forgive me, if I lie with my ‘I’m okay’ because I cannot possibly tell you that I am tired. I AM TIRED AND THAT IS THAT. And I cannot make you understand how suddenly, my strength had seeped out, my heart feels empty with nothing but this overwhelming sense of loneliness whose origin I do not know and I cling to that word tired, say it over and over again as if it’s the mantra that will get me through one fucking day.

I AM TIRED.   But hey, I’m okay 🙂

“You see, some people are born with a piece of night inside, and that hollow place can never be filled – not with all the good food or sunshine in the world. That emptiness cannot be banished, and so some days we wake with the feeling of the wind blowing through, and we must simply endure it as the boy did.” – Leigh Bardugo, Language of Thorns

The Kind of Love

He loved her. From the day that he saw her till the day that she left. From the moment she melted that ice in her heart and found warmth in his arms. He loved her when those arms choked her and locked her inside just to keep her with him. He loved her when he caged her as if he knew of that piece of wildness inside her, one that might consume her. He loved her to the point where he believed offering roses and endless spring can bring that wildness to its knees. Even if the same roses pierced her. Even if the same spring enraged the beasts inside her because it blinded them, lied to them of the sunlight they’ll never truly have. He knew but he loved her so much that what she wanted was not a priority. But it was seeing her beside him that made everything right when it had been a violation to all that she is. He loved her. I believe he loves her still. But it was not the kind of love that she can return or anyone can return. It was the kind of love that demands her to bleed and bow down. It was the kind of love that slowly poisons. It was the kind of love that imprisons. 

Sometimes, when two broken people try to fit the jagged pieces that is left of their hearts, they find themselves once again wounded rather than healed.

To Tamlin and Feyre, it was a heartbreaking story to begin with.

*photo’s not mine.


Of Monsters and Stars

“So why can’t it be us? Just this once, tell me.” Before I devote myself to a night of alcohol to ease the pain a little in the process of forgetting you, I know he wanted to add. As if the answer’s as simple as giving directions. It was his third time asking that. After three rejections. I guess he finally gave up.

I weighed my next words carefully. I guess I am afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of loving? Of the idea of committing myself or surrendering my secrets to someone? Of the notion that one day I might get hurt?” My tone implying the obvious— that someone like me who had been independent for how many years can’t just trust someone with her heart. Not at this moment.

He did not answer as he continued watching the stream of cars passing us by. And when it seems like the conversation had ended, I had busied myself with counting the stars scattered across the sky when he said softly , No you’re not.”


He smiled at me, a smile that did not reach his eyes, as he said, No you’re not. If you were, then you would not have your friends. And I can see how much they treasure you which only means one thing — whatever is between you and your friends is real and goes deeper than just the fun. It means you laughed and cried with them and for them. Believe me, that is not someone who is afraid to love others and sacrifice for them.”

Silence. He tore his gaze from me and now turned his attention at the bright specks staining the dark sky which captivated me a moment ago before he said I was wrong.

“Your afraid of the idea of being loved.” he said, barely a whisper.

“And why would I be?” My voice a little higher than expected, a hint of challenge there to give proof of what he’d just said. A demand for explanation of why he seemed to think he knows the answers to what gnaws me better than I do.

His eyes remained fixed at those stars as he said, Because, he sighed deeply, because you can’t accept the fact that someone like me could actually love you. Because you won’t allow yourself to believe that when I look into your eyes, into your soul, I see different shades of different colors for every book that you’ve read instead of just that black, unyielding emptiness that you see. Because you are afraid that a monster could be loved too, could be cared for, could be beautiful for her wildness and her sharp claws. You are afraid of being loved because you don’t think you deserve it. But I do. The thing is, no matter what I do or say, no matter how hard I try, I can’t make your nightmares embrace me when you have tightly leashed them to you… I can’t make them see that they have a home in my heart as they have in yours.”

I stared at him. There was sadness and regret in his face. I was still unsure of what to reply when he kissed my forehead and left without saying a word.

A chapter of the stories I'll never have the courage to write.

Lonely Girl

Was it the loneliness, dear girl
That he claim to understand?
Did your heart ache
When he kissed your calloused hand?
Did your heart stopped a moment
After he compared you to sunset
– Dauntless, vibrant
Yet with inevitable sadness ?
Did he break that heart of ice
When he told you of your beauty
Despite that too cold face
That reminded you of cruelty
Did he embrace your ugly scars
As if they were his?
Did he say that he’ll stay
Because his heart has found its rest?
Oh silly, silly girl!
You were lonely for too long
That when he came with his sword
Everything became a love song
Oh silly, silly girl!
Have you truly not noticed?
That what he has to offer
Was not love but loneliness?
Oh silly, lonely girl
Did you not ever wonder
Why he understood so much of that pain
If it didn’t keep him a prisoner?


Do you know what I hate about fighting? It’s not the vulnerable state I am in. Not the crying. Nor the curses or hurtful words. It is not the anger. Not the frustrations. Not the winning nor losing of an argument. It is not that.

 It is the nothingness. That very cold feeling after the numbing of pain which grips me and whispers no more. Let us not  care anymore and feel anything. It feels like my senses become dulled- my eyes no longer see other’s tears, my ears no longer hear their problems, my hands no longer want to comfort theirs. And all I can see is my own crying face, hear my own silent pleas and feel this coldness which offers me everything by feeling nothing. And suddenly, my mind just goes blank, my heart no longer hurting and everything else fades. 

In that very instance, I feel free.

And I hate it because I crave it and because I know that come daylight, I’ll choose not to succumb to it.

Hades and Persephone

As Autumn buries its dead leaves
And innocent Springtime slowly recedes
As Winter puts the Earth in a cold slumber
Return to me in the land here under

Leave the crown of flowers at the entrance
Let the darkness engulf you in a dance
Wear this crown of ashes and bones
In this  place of banished souls

For this world they call a prison,
 Is the kingdom we call our home
And queen you always shall be
In this seat beside my throne

So lie here with me, my lovely Persephone
And let the underworld whisper the truth of our story

His Fault

It was not your fault that you fall in love with people who can make you smile and  laugh. After all, you crave for that tiny sliver of light for the dark abyss that is your soul. It was not your fault that you once believed he was put by fate onto your path for you to finally feel loved and complete. It was not your fault that you hoped his days were numbered to seeing you. It was not your fault that you thought he’s falling too. It was not your fault that he was neither of the things you’ve expected. 

It was and never will be your fault to believe something could still be beautiful in this cruel world. It was and never will be your fault that you just wanted to be loved as you are capable of loving. It isn’t your fault that in the quest of trying to be understood and cared about and loved, just loved even once, you get hurt by the things you see and didn’t want to and by the things you want to but did not see. It hurts, my God, it hurts to realize you’re back to zero once again, it was lonely once again, hollow once again.

But darling, it was neither his.

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