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The evergreenness of emotional pain
I know stages. So many stages that I now know that the last stage of anything usually means it’s either blooming or dying. (There’s no sugarcoating in the human experience.) The extent of some physical invasions by diseases can be classified by stages nowadays. Neat. It doesn’t mean it makes things easier. I think it’s our human nature to not want to know what lies ahead — I blame the fear of the unknown. But it can’t be a bad thing either knowing how you’re going to end. Anyway, all this preambling is just to ask: does heartache have stages? We are well aware of the stages of grief (denial,…
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The last heartbeat in me
And even after the sun did twelve laps even after your claws came out even after your true colors showed the last heartbeat in me was somehow relieved I was able to breathe I had agreed to just let it go I had made peace with this popular belief that habit was stronger than love but I guess I never saw a feeling bloom on concrete Eternity falls short and I still can’t understand why, but it is one of those battles you just fight hopelessly to win and stay alive And no matter how many red flags were waved you go back to sleep hoping or thinking or wishing…
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Revolving Door Tribulations
The day I found out perfection couldn’t be achieved, I knew I had one thing and one thing only left to be: unapologetically human. Flawed to the core. Shamelessly vulnerable. Breakable. Of all this, I find the latter is the hardest thing to be. You’re breakable from the moment you’re conceived; accepting such fragility is what makes it tough. Because who wants to let a life go to waste just like that? Who wants to seem weak? We’re obsessed with being strong in the face of adversity. You’re always trying to dodge the bullet, but life is a revolving door and it will bounce back. It will hit you right…
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Why Poetry?
Pensive, he looked away as if trying to find the words that, maybe in his mind, would not offend me. His shoulder touched his chin for a second before he said, “I mean, I just don’t get it. What’s the point?” “Of writing?” “Yeah, I mean, writing, blogging…poetry — who’s reading this and what’s the point of it?!” My heart sank at the realization that this guy I liked so much wasn’t able to see the power of words; the fire, the passion, the rational thinking that is found only through these irrational thoughts and imagination. How could he fail to see the beauty in it? “But it’s so…f-cking…beautiful,” I…
