For the night is dark and full of dreamers ♥

Palace of Cards

Maybe the darkest secrets that we shared had provided us the pillars of our palace, gave us the shadow of the home we wish to build. Maybe the times that we argued had created the magnificent rooms which span days to go to and fro, allowing us to hide in silence when we are unable to express our hurt. Spaces to which you could play your violin while I stay on my own to write my worries away. Maybe the hallways in between are for the times we kissed and make up after each fight. Hallways made of marble which echoes the sound of approaching footsteps that assure us of each other’s willingness to lay down our pride and go back to each other when we are ready. Maybe the surprises and the bouquet of flowers showered in public served as the spires  that pierced the heavens  for both angels and men to admire.

But had we truly built a palace that only the strongest wind could topple down?

My love, there were so many little details, small cracks, that we had overlooked. Or perhaps chose to. Did you really know the shade of violet that I like? Somehow, I never really thought to ask if you prefer a specific brand for your toothpaste. You never got to ask the story of why I always cut my hair 2 inches below my shoulder. And you never really told me if you would rather have it longer . You just seem to accept everything that I offer. And I just seem to like everything that you do. We had all our time devoted to anniversaries and funerals, of things we wanted to create between us and things we wish to destroy in us so we could be perfect for each other. Maybe we thought we could give to one another a love greater than what we can give to ourselves.

My love, maybe it was the little things that broke what we had. In time I’d realized that we did not need the strong wind to try us. We started a palace, one made of cards, and ended it for every sigh that we make over each other’s small mistake.


To be Alone

“Is it lonely to be alone?” they asked.

“No.” I answered. “It had never been lonely with my books and my coffee. I die a thousand deaths but live a day more. What is lonely with that? I think of myself and then I think of the world and the people in it. Over and over. Everyday, by myself. And everyday, I get my hopes restored in the goodness we are all capable of. There is no loneliness in finding yourself and shaping your own ideas.”

“You don’t get lonely then?”

“Sometimes when I am among people even with those I care and love the most, I feel this sense of not belonging. I feel this loss, an unexplainable longing for a home when home was supposed to be the one you are talking to or the one you’re sharing a laugh with just minutes ago. And I think that’s loneliness for us  who feel more comfortable being by ourselves than being with many. It is the most conflicting thing–to feel abandonment at the midst of reaching hands, to feel broken and vulnerable even with people who swore to be your shield, to be utterly empty when you’re supposed to be filled with love from others.”

“So the likes of you don’t get lonely when they are alone?”

“Oh loneliness is not an alarm clock set at will. It comes knocking at midnight or high noon and stays most of the time. But you see, when we are alone and loneliness comes as a guest, then the demons we hide from others can freely come to play with it and keep it company. So you see, I had my demons to thank to for being with me when I know no one else can. At the end, it’s not so lonely anymore.”

Once Upon a Time

There was once a time when she saw herself as the damsel in distress, the princess in a tower. Whenever she reads her books, she waits for the moment when the prince comes riding on his white stallion and saves the girl. There had been once when she wanted every story to end with ‘and they lived happily ever after’. It was also at those times that she craved the adventures of wizards — of saving worlds and being saved, of magic and another reality. She loved her happy books — her heroes lived and villains died– and inhale the hope and dreams they offer like fresh air in the night. There was a time when her ideas were shaped by the ideas of winners, of her knights and saviors and saw only the path of the noble, the brave and the kind. She thought of the ways her heroes showed compassion, knew that these acts make the world a better place to live. She believed because there is something out there worth believing.

Then she grew up.

Now she sees the villains on the pages. Now she looks at them not with loathing or prejudice but with empathy, with sadness over their bitterness and pain, their revenge and reasons. She no longer wants the happy books because they did not mirror the real world. The real world is cruel. The real world feeds on weakness and kindness. There is no trace of magic, no spirit of hope in her world. However, she reads still the adventures of men but now finds justice in the actions of their foes. She cries for the villains now and remembers them as those who suffered and are wounded and chose not to be noble nor brave nor kind. She knows how often true it is to just give up on what is right when the world keeps turning everything against you. It is cowardice, she knows. It is wrong to hate. It is wrong to blame everyone else. But they were done with what is right and she resonates with that. After all, it is also wrong to ask a person to continually torture herself for the sake of everyone else. She understands them — the sharpness of their knives, the hardness of their choices, the coldness of their hearts.

Once upon a time, a girl loved her fairytales and longed to see the world that lies beyond the walls of the tower that imprisons her. But when she ventured out, there were thieves with kind faces that stole her trust and never gave it back. There were hunters with soft hands that saw her only as flesh and bones. There were merchants with comforting words who promised her a bottle of dreams and hope but gave her the harshness of reality instead. And then there was the prince and his knights who came to rescue her when she had abandoned everything. There were them who accompanied her, made her feel loved and complete. Until they also left and dragged away the pieces of her heart that she had given fully when nothing else could be given.

It changes you– to know that your once upon a time does not end with a happily ever after.

Ten Blank Pages

Losing a friend is an underrated heartache

Ten blank pages  for the letters
They had asked me to write
One for the future ahead
Another, for giving up the fight

A third one for the emptiness
Of the heart that denies to return
A fourth for all the goodbyes unsaid
And memories that were burnt

I think I sent a fifth on Monday
The same day they smiled on my way
A fitting ending to the start
Of bonds broken and a hollow heart

They stopped me at sixth
And asked me what’s wrong
So I handed them the blank page
“Nothing,” after a pause too long

The seventh  page I had sent
For the silence and the secrets
An eighth one with a bracelet
I had forgotten what it meant

The ninth one I gave
For all the times I had craved
Understanding and company
When my demons consume me

The tenth I had folded
Folded and folded
For the hundreds of apologies
We had and could have said

Ten blank pages
For each untold ‘I’d missed you’
For the unspoken ‘Thank you’
The promised ‘I’m here for you’

Ten blank pages
When they were not there
And the dark had their faces
And burdens were unshared

Ten blank pages
For ten more minutes of tears
Before I close my heart
And let them all disappear

Bittersweet Tongue

She was of bitter tongue
One of razor sharp edges
That cuts a smile’s curve
And bleeds acid on the floor
Breeding bitterness in return

One that silences other’s words
Aim to bit and bleed and burn
Such was the brutality
Which was to hers a beauty
That left others to mourn

Yet when he tasted her
She was melted sugar and honey
Her tongue blends to smoothness
Confessing with love
And lying with subtlety

She was of sweet tongue
One made to say “I love you”
On some days, “I’m fine”
Soothing the creased forehead
And his anxious heart inside

A bitter tongue she has
To kill quickly a stranger
Who comes too near the line
One that might offer,
A love she cannot hold after

A sweet tongue she has
To kill slowly herself
Who starts to feel something
A lie to gradually poison,
The love she tries hiding

Oh how bittersweet!
A tongue that aims to break
A tongue to make them hate
All that for the fear
Of the love she might receive

Those that Slowly Kill

She never told you, didn’t she?

That the sound of something breaking or hitting the floor makes her catch her breath. For a moment, she is a prey sensing that a predator is near and about to pounce. For a moment, her heart waits for the arrival of violence as it always has.  She glances for the source until she is sure that nothing of significance had been a source. “They are different,” she will convince herself of that many times. Then she will try to breathe.

She never told you, didn’t she?

That the smell of cigarettes and reek of alcohol makes her feel like she is trapped in a dark room that’s slowly closing in on her. It sends these alarms blaring in her head, forcing her mind to a panicked state that she is not able to physically display. Automatically, her lungs force themselves not to breathe, a part of her that is pre-programmed to respond only in this type of situation. But her brain is a traitor that could only survive for seconds with so little oxygen fed to it and so it overrides her defense mechanism and orders her mouth to open and her nose to inhale. So she breathes. She breathes that foul smell. At those exact seconds, her brain momentarily stops. She can sense it back-tracking at its initial decision now that it has not been driven by its need.  It’s that stretch of silence as maddening as the coming storm. Then the onslaught of the storm. Out! Get out! Her mind screams but her body is shocked into stillness. It’s like being slowly approached with hot poker while tied tightly. Nothing to do but watch. There’s this knowing fear and desperation circulating with the blood in her body. She wants to vomit the contents of her stomach and more so, of her brain. And then, the worst. The cascade of memories she tried to suppress, that the devil knows she tried so hard to forget and move on from. Now she pounds her head once, twice, enough to say that this is just a headache to a passer-by’s point of view. All the while, she begs for it to stop. Yet, it won’t. Yet, it can’t. Because every inhalation triggers those scenes.  STOP! STOP!  She feels the war of her will versus the need of her whole body for air. She can feel the hot poker being twisted on her skin leaving them exposed. She can feel the scream building in her throat. But when she had denied for it to escape, she felt tears sliding down her cheeks instead. She can’t do this in public! She can’t possibly face questions after this. The possibility of that threatened her brain into another definite fall towards hysteria.  GET OUT! Her brain screamed and screamed, being the only thing truly alive inside her at that moment. But how does she get out when she’s with people of happy faces? How does she explain why she can’t seem to breathe all of a sudden? Why there is sweat forming on her forehead and horror in her eyes? She can only try to sleep or turn away for a second or pretend to have a valid excuse of hugging her knees and resting her head on them as she tries to remedy the panic burning her skin, frying her brain and melting her very bones at that instant.

She never told you, didn’t she? Those moments that she is dying and wish she could. Those moments that slowly kill what’s left of her reasons to stay alive.

Tu Me Manques

You are missing from me.

Not I miss you.

Because to miss someone is to miss another entity, another being. To miss someone is to acknowledge that I am once yours and you, mine. To miss someone is to admit that the threads of our lives lie on separate beginnings, tangled at the middle and had the misfortune of deviating once again. You are missing from me. I am not yours and you are not mine. We are not each other’s possession. We are each other’s definition. You are each and every muscle of this form, every bit of this skeletal frame holding it together, every bit of blood that runs in this body. It is you as it is me.  Every breathing part and every beat of a heart. I would not like to believe that we are simply ley lines, points of convergence, in each other’s story bound to  meet and simply move on wondering how the earth should rotate to bring you once again to me and I to you. You are my latitude as I am your longitude and we define every point of the world we choose to step in and no matter how the world may spin and spin, you and I will always be a part of each other.

You are missing from me. Like a limb or an organ vital to a body. Like numbers in coordinates and directions in a compass. I am missing from me. Lost. And there is no corner or space in this world that would feel as if I’m found without you to define it with me.

A Windy Day

It is strange how windy it is today
How I can hear the rustling of leaves
The muffled sounds of conversation
But as I tread towards my destination
It all feels… empty

It is strange how windy it is today
How the wind seems to blow through not on
How it passes with a dancer’s grace
And a thief’s fleeting face
It all feels… temporary

It is strange how windy it is today
How there’s so much air to breathe
Yet none that fills a void
And nothing to ease the mind
It all feels… insignificant

It’s strange how windy it is today
How I inhale trying to be alive
Just to exhale knowing I’m dead inside
Strange how the wind moves today
It seems to lack…a soul


A Whisper

Sometimes, love does not come with a bang. Sometimes, it just disturbs with a whisper. “Are you a fan of Avengers?” He may say as he noticed your shirt before the movie theater goes dark. And you may look at this stranger. You may assess what he wants before saying a non-committal ‘Yeah’. Sometimes though, love could be deaf to your want to end the conversation so he presses on with “Are you a Team Cap? I am.” And at that time, you may grimace. Or you may roll your eyes. At that time your eyebrows may go up and your mouth let out a sigh of half disbelief, half disappointment as you say, “I speak English.” And you may have had shook your head once as the silence goes on without a comeback from him. Sometimes, love may take that as rejection. Sometimes, love may blame his geek side showing.

Maybe meeting love isn’t really a bang like how the universe started but instead, it’s a whisper of a greeting while you were busy planning your day in a park somewhere. Maybe when you look up, love is looking at you with a hint of recognition in his face as if you met somewhere. Like in a movie theater perhaps? Maybe love had finally understood your reference. Maybe it took him long but now he does. And maybe, it’s supposed to give you a slight happy feeling because fate gave you this day to be disturbed by someone who takes time to know your preference in superheroes.

Sometimes, love does not come in a loud and explosive way as others may have described. Maybe you did not feel that strong tug of recognizing a soulmate once your eyes locked. Maybe there was no magnetic type of force pulling you towards love. Maybe love just wanted to talk to someone and figured that two people with no company in a movie theater might as well have a conversation. Maybe love comes in a whisper of “Can I get your number?” or “Would you like to go out with me?”  while stuttering. Maybe love is the whisper of ‘good night’ after a call time of almost an hour. Maybe love is supposed to be the whisper of ‘good morning’ by your side. Maybe love is the vow of ‘ I do’ softly spoken in private before shouting it to the world. Maybe meeting love was not the bang of changing both worlds found in movies or books. Maybe it’s a whisper, a promise, of building a home in nights where you are one.

#TeamIronMan 😉 #ScienceBro ALWAYS!

Finally! Someone who speaks English! || Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers || The Avengers || 500px × 253px || #animated #quotes

Note: To all the MCU fans or just those who are movie-goers, Thor: Ragnarok is one of the best MCU films. So yeah, watch it!

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