A Conversation

"So you're still hoping?"

"Can you not ruin the moment? I'm enjoying my fleeting happiness."

"So the answer is yes."

"Oh fine. Yes. Is that what you wanted to hear? Will you be happy to know that I'm suffering?"

"I didn't mean it like that--"

"Then what? What do you mean, then? That I'm stupid for hoping for anything? I know it's hopeless, but can't I be happy for just one moment?"

"I didn't say hoping was wrong--"

"You don't have to say it."

"I'm sorry."

"...Now you're apologizing."

"Please don't be angry."

"Actually, I'm not."

"Then why?"

"...I'm hurt?"

"...Because...?"

"It's the truth."

On A Man's Journey

I am twisted beyond compare. Not that I am evil, but I can never call myself pure either.

I have lost the innocence I like to believe I have.

Life happened. As much as I want to be like I was when I was a child, I can't.

You learn stuff. You grow up. Old beliefs are shattered, left behind, forgotten.

You lose what being a child is--to be living in your own piece of the real world--as you are discovering more of what the world has to offer.

So I have not always walked the straight road, and I have had my share of crooked paths.

I know I have strayed, and I came back.

The Reality of Existence

There are things that will always be beyond your control.

Like time. Sunset, sunrise, the equinox and solstice.

Seasons. The birth of new life in spring. The reassuring warmth of summer. The change of colors and the start of rest in autumn. The liquid silence of winter.

Age. Everything alive experiences it.

Death. It is inevitable, especially to those whose time comes so soon.

Tears. They are bound to fall someday. Maybe not now. Maybe not at the time or place you thought it would come. Maybe not for the person you thought deserves them. But they will fall. We are human after all.

Emotions. There are a lot to name and still remain unnamed. Like happiness, laughter, undisciplined giggles and chortles behind hands and fans and buried in arms, and red faces and knee-slapping fun.

Sadness, crying, whimpers and tears and ugly sobbing not meant for television, and hiccups and wobbling chins and tearing at the hair on your head and into pillows and teddy bears and friends' shoulders.

Anger, red, pulsing, FUCK YOU TO THE DEEPEST PITS OF HELL, throwing things and words and punches, screaming, red faces and flying spittle and breaking down of objects and walls and relationships and families.

Love. It cannot even be put into words, even if many had attempted to do so in the past. Many had tried to describe it, many had tried to define it. But to no avail. It is beautiful and ugly (though some deny it to be so, it is not alway an easy way through it). Some believe it doesn't exist. Some only find it in books and movies and fleeting encounters that never happen again. Some say they never find it at all. But there are different types of love, and one will always get one. Even if it hurts. Because it is love.

Fate. The future. Serendipity, kismet, destiny, whatever you call it in your language. But this my friend is up to you.



There are things that will always be beyond your control. Things you cannot even begin to imagine.


And this is the world we live in.

A "Bunch of Stuff"

It was a bunch of lies, that pile of stuff that she proudly declared to define her.

It wasn't the fancy camera; it was the memories frozen in time.

It wasn't the diploma; it was the years of learning and friendship.

It wasn't the stack of rejected manuscripts; it was the hope of just one more chance to prove yourself to the world.

It wasn't the stash of resumes; it was the drive to find your place in the world.

It wasn't the love letters from an old flame; it was the feelings of a first love.

So it wasn't "just a bunch of stuff." That part was a lie.

It was a bunch of her.

Boats of Everything

I wrote our love story in a paper boat and let it set sail on that murky river of regret. The waters were full of disappointments, strewn with bitter tears and broken hearts. It was polluted with angst and distrust, contaminated with betrayal and sadness. These were the waters in which anyone would never wish to drown in.

But against the whirlpools of depression, through the waves of grief, and past the storms of conflict, that tiny boat sailed on. It has little tears and splashes, but it stubbornly sails on. It may be battered. It certainly is imperfect. It has its own flaws, and it may need repairs more often than not. And it can sink. But the fact that it doesn't makes it special.

The dark waters are strong, but the paper boat held on.

There is a time that will come when maybe the boat will sink, that it will wash ashore as a pulpy, nondescript piece of garbage. But we will know its story, the waters it has crossed and the storms it has weathered.

And that will be enough. It has proved its worth, and met its nautical miles. It has told its story, and made one of its own. Of how to fight and let go. To hold on, to sail on, and find the dock it belongs to.

The Waiting Game

It was a waiting game.




They can't talk. They can't even let anybody know they were aware of each other's existence.




But it was all thrilling. And they were in for the excitement.



He throws stones at her window, and she pokes out her head and smirked at him. "What are you, a lovesick teenager?"

He frowns. "Just get down here."

She meets him at the sidewalk, the asphalt cold from the melting snow.

"...when is this going to stop?"

He looks up.

"What?"

"This game... when will we reach that final stage?"

He tilts his head, biting his lip.

"I don't know."

She scuffs her feet at the slush, making patterns at the asphalt with the toe of her shoe.

"I don't know."

Allow me this.

The words flow from his hand to the page, coarse, unpolished. There was no boundaries, just another line, just another word, just one more punctuation mark. He was crying, the tears flowing down from his eyes as he writes his final message, as he looks at the silent body that will never make him blush again, that will never blush again. As he writes, the blood flows from the deep slashes at his wrist. Staining the paper, staining the table, staining the wood of the pencil gripped in his hand, as he writes those final words.

Destinations

There was a bus that once went anywhere you wanted to go.

You just have to close your eyes and wish hard enough and it would appear, right before your eyes. In the middle of nowhere in a thunderstorm it will arrive, untouched by time or weather of laws of Newton and open its doors to you.

You step inside. It will always be empty for new passengers, for it does not believe in filling up seat capacities. But it does believe in chance encounters. You can meet anyone while waiting for that bus, and maybe by the time it arrives you have new places to go to, new people to get to know better.

It runs on wanderlust instead of gasoline, for the world was never enough for people who ride on this bus.

There was always a new place to discover. In this planet, in this universe, in themselves; nobody was really sure anymore.

But there was a place you wanted to go to, the bus will take you. It needs no fare, just the knowledge that you know that it was one-way trip. Oh it can take you back to where you came from if you wish, but rest assured you will not be the same person that first rode the bus.

For it was more than just motor and metal on wheels.

It is a vehicle of experiences waiting to be made to memories, and stories waiting to be written and told.

Now... will you ride it? Will you not ride it?

Exhaustion

I never knew why feelings exist in the first place. Why we were not born akin to automatons, only set to do things as we should. And then when we need babies we can just make one from scrap pieces of metal. It would be less taxing that way.

But that's the beauty of being human. You get to feel. You are different from plant and animal in a way because you can express your feelings in ways more than one. Civilized, you might call it. But we do return to our carnal instincts. We were never perfect after all.

It's tiring to cry. Or to arrange your feelings and try to put them to words because hell, they're feelings. They're abstract. They're supposed to be uncontainable, if that was even a word. And swear words and cursing? They are just sorry excuses for intense emotions you have no head or tail of even beginning to explain. So if people swear? They just can't talk well enough about themselves. They feel too much, and that brings us back to wishing we can be robots.

But empty hulks of metal? What was that? That isn't a human; that is a machine. And we are humans because we feel. We are not just hollow beings with brains sitting in our heads. We are human because we have minds to think and process and hearts to feel and understand what the mind sees. And sometimes, these roles can be reversed. And that's not a bad thing.

Even people who stare off into space, seemingly numb. They feel. They feel so much they shut off the rest of the world. They feel that this universe is not enough for the pain or the sadness that they may feel to contain them and their feelings at the same time.

I may just say a lot of stuff to distract me from these tears from completely spilling out but know that every word means something.

This is my way to feel.

Comeback

...Hello lovely readers.

Sorry I've been MIA for the past I don't know how many weeks now...

Okay I checked, the last time I posted was Valentine's Day O___O After that was just an insane time at school. Projects, plays, faculty shows, internships to apply for (none of which have called back save for one as of press time... sobs)

But as it is summer vacation at my side of the world, I can go back to posting stuff! I've been writing at my spare time and I have a few I could share :)

Which brings us to an announcement. This blog now has a Twitter account! Yay~ I actually started it around December last year as a request from my friends. Initially it's filled with quotes from the few things I've written here, but it also took a hiatus when things at university went insane. So I'm revamping it!

The Twitter handle name is @writingriddles and it will continue tweeting quotes from whatever I post in here. Also, it will tweet updates whenever I post a new entry in this blog, as well as some phrases that are a tad short for this wordy blog. You can talk to me there, ask questions and stuff, and maybe when I'm in the mood I'll open request posts once in a while!

I'm also on Tumblr under the same name (writingriddles.tumblr.com) but I mostly post photos there. But it's still me :)

So.... yeah. Until the next post! :)