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| http://reberk.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/emo-page-3.jpg |
The
pages of my notebook remind me of the countless thoughts that I try to weave and possibly spew romanticism, those few moments where I write with clarity. I try to
remember, but even in remembering I feel pain. I close my notebook, half
expecting that this chapter will all be gone soon. But I cannot even fake the
intangible desolate feeling that is gnawing within the recesses of my heart.
I
attempt to move my hands, eagerly waiting for the embers of possibilities to
light up. But there is nothing, not even the smallest spark that could consume
me. So in utter disbelief, I push my hands and wait for portents to
come. But nothing responds. The universe is silent, and its silence is
maddening.
So
in the rough edges and of the pages that stretch towards eternity, I try to capture what I believe
is real, albeit I am at loss with myself and with the world. I trace the
edges of my notebook trying to figure out if I can still feel something, even if I am nowhere near my sanity.
Then
I remembered that I just lost a piece of me. I wept.
do not weep, somewhere out there, someone might have found that piece and he will take care of it, like it is also a part of him. :)
ReplyDeleteBut one may never know.
ReplyDeletei know, and now you do. :)
ReplyDeleteso smile, somewhere out there, someone loves you.
We write when we cannot speak. When verbalizing these thoughts are dreaded because to call them out makes them real, tangible, and utterly, undeniably, in-your-face. Because in writing, the pain becomes more palatable, less immediate, and easier going down. We can string a mise en scene less dredged, and beaten, a vision more optimistic and acceptable. Because in writing we can process it, make sense of the mishmash of emotional purgatories we inhabit, yet in the end becoming more self-aware of said limbo. Maybe because of this that writing requires a different brand of strength, and a more taxing state of self-awareness. To write requires not only to express, but to imprint oneself. Spirit and all, upon a page.
ReplyDelete[Is it just me, or are there really faint sakura-ish splotches on your page? I only noticed it now.]
There is, though I am not really utterly aware of how to characterize it. So if it's referred to as sakura-ish splotches; then so be it. :)
Delete