Dream Catcher

Catch your dreams with a web of knotted string and feathers from the wings of freedom-loving birds.

And know that these dreams don't just go up to the sky and disappear into thin air.

They become the clouds to remind you to always look up.

They become the rain, to help us realize that it's okay to cry when we feel overwhelmed.

They become the air that we breathe, not always remembered but just constantly there.

They become the rays of sunshine that light up your darkest days.

They become stardust, for these are what dreams are made of: faith and trust and magic.

They become stars, to make you reach for them every day and every night, and remind you how close you are to everything you ever desire. For they are different stars; stars within the reach of your fingertips.

They become people. Friends and family and love. They tell you that you can.

They are dreams, caught by a web of knotted string and feathers from freedom-loving birds.

They are dreams, and they are real as they can get. Just like a web of knotted string and feathers.

They are dreams.


And they are real.

An Open Letter to Words

A barrage of words shot straight at my heart, every punctuation mark and inflection a death sentence to what used to be my feelings. Every day, I live through pain and destruction and I realize that it is hard to hold on to things that I have never even begun to know. That I am legally an adult but in all other ways a complete child.

You open books and watch movies and fall in love and hate characters, but then they are fiction. They are not real. You get affected by every damn thing the world throws at you and it is just so hard to keep everything in at times. You scream. You cry. You sing in the shower even if you're tone-deaf. You write letters and songs and poems and think you're the next big thing to come to the world just waiting to be discovered, but then there are others just like you.

You feel so angry. You feel so sad. And helpless. And drowning.

And it claws at your chest, so hard, that breathing becomes a pain and you wish that you can curl up and forget existing. Anything to take that pain away.

Sometimes you just become so angry you don't even know where it's coming from. But it's there.

Sometimes you just become so sad that the tears just keep flowing, and you can't answer the questions of "what happened" and "what's wrong" because frankly, you don't know.

Each time the words come to me I write them down. I may not know what they mean just yet. But I know that right now, it hurts, and I am telling the world that silver platters and soothing nothings are just ways to make you feel better even if the world is falling apart. Because that is the reason for their existence. To keep the waves of depression in bay.

These words, they come in a hurricane. These words, they come in disorder, but with purpose, with meaning. We may not understand it just yet, but there is a reason why we put words together in ways to make people feel something they are not feeling right now.

And right now, this is what these words are trying to say.

This is not a perfect piece. I may have made a lot of errors along the way, but I'm either too scared or too sad to check. It doesn't help making me feel less angry.

You. Yes you, the person who is reading this right now.

You may not like this piece. You may even hate it, then hate me for making you feel something you don't want to feel. But try to understand. These words came together because they are supposed to, right at this moment. At another point in time they will group together differently, dance in tongues and pages to different tunes, but right now they are in this place for this moment.

Or maybe for some reason you like it. Or there is an unsettled feeling in your chest. Or maybe something calm. I don't know, I can't predict how things are supposed to make anybody feel, like how a red balloon can make an old man laugh or cry.

Or just maybe, it can make you understand something. Even just a tiny bit.

It's okay if you don't. I'm not sure if I even understand things myself.

But I'll be fine. We'll all be fine.

We just need these hurricanes once in a while.

Seemingly Infinite Playlists

They shared earphones the day they first met, one day at a mutual friend's birthday party. They were both sitting in the same corner and you can cut through the awkward atmosphere with a samurai's sword. The people that brought them here were too busy making out in the kitchen so they both sit on the couch, her hands on her lap and his arms crossed across his chest, earphones plugged into his ears and tuning out the rest of the world. She hums along to a song she had stuck in her head for the past few days, and was startled when the guy next to her suddenly talked.

"I'm sorry, is my volume too loud?"

She looks at him in confusion.

"Eh?"

"You were humming the same song I was listening to... or not...?" he shyly asked, biting his lip and giving her an unsure smile. She smiles and shakes her head.

"It's okay, the volume's fine." His smile grows wider, and he tilts his head to remove one and hands it over to her.

"Want to listen?"

The rest of the party was spent that way, joined by earphones as they talk about their favorite singers, discuss their favorite lyrics and argue about the best band in existence (she likes The Beatles and he's stubborn about Red Hot Chili Peppers but he won't tell her he loves The Beatles too).



One night at a party, a boy and a girl fell in love with shared earphones and a seemingly infinite playlist.



There were slow songs for when they first met, shyly getting to know each other. Dancing beats for when they met and met again, laughing and having the time of their lives. There were ballads that made them cry (although he was shy admitting it until she caught him crying over his music player) and there were heavy metal punk and grunge songs for when they fight and not see each other for days. And there were classics


And then there were the love songs. Those love songs, they recommend it to each other, finding new songs and beautiful lyrics.

Secretly they dedicate each one to the other, making mixtape upon mixtape that had titles like "what your smile does to my heart" and "I hate how I love your stupid face" and "songs my heart wants to tell you" or something equally cheesy.


But music players run out of batteries, wires become overused and frayed, songs fall out of the charts and mixtapes were phased out.


The songs they listened to were now full of angsty lyrics and screaming voices, more noise than music as they both try to drown out the wailing of their own heart.





For there was no melody yet invented to appease broken relationships and hearts and souls.







Once upon a time there was a boy and a girl. They love music. Music loves them as well. Then they both decided they have to find their own notes first, know their own stories so they can have better lyrics, their own unique scores.









Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl who shared earphones in a party. They shared music, songs, seemingly infinite playlists.









Once upon a time, there was a boy. And a girl. They shared earphones once.








Now. They both use only one when listening to music, even if they have both to use. The other ear is trained to listen to the voices around them. For maybe they can hear that voice again.



"Eh?"



"Want to listen?"





And a new song is written out.

You have your own spotlight

In a sea of people, there wasn't only you. There were other people that lived and got hurt and laughed and cried and gave up and moved on.




And yet you were the only one I can see.

I Never Want To Heal

Band-aids to wounds, handkerchiefs to tears. A cold cloth to the forehead for fever, hugs and lullabies for nightmares.


I wonder if I would ever be cured from falling in love with you.


And then again, I have scars I want to keep.

Of Waiting

Waiting for the person that would never come.


Waiting for the train that just left.


Waiting for the places that were never there.


Waiting for the 31st of February.


Waiting for the sun to rise from the west.


Waiting for world peace.


Waiting for a dead person to love you back.


Waiting for a reply for a message you never sent.


Waiting for awards for and invention you have yet to make.


Waiting for the one you love to love you back.


Waiting is a habit.






Waiting is an art.

The Realization of Being Ephemeral

Even if you continuously take pictures of the most beautiful creatures on earth, they will never match up to the real thing.




It was when I was alone that I realized how much I yearn for human companionship.







The leaves fall, the sun rises and set, sometime somebody somewhere dies.









It never changes. Time doesn't stop for anyone, for anybody. 

A Circle of Patience

The power of patience. 

Waiting for that right moment. 

Our meeting was a lucky strike, something that rarely happens. 

Don't you reckon it's funny, that out of the billions of people in this world, we have met the people we know today?

And out of the million of people, we became friends with these people? The same interests, or maybe just the same class with a single thing bonding them together. Isn't it amazing?

And in the thousands of people we find people that we don't agree with. We argue, we regret, we part ways when we were once friends. We sigh, we continue. 

And in the hundreds of people, we found existences we love. 

We cherish. 

We promise to protect. 

We found, that one person. 

That fated person we are lucky enough to meet.