I’m writing every day. I may not post all of them (I like keeping some to myself), but I’m writing every day again. It feels surreal. I miss this.
I hope to terrify someone enough that he’d willingly spend his lifetime trying to tame his heart whenever I’m near him, but at the same time, he’d let it roar in his chest with love pumping in his veins.
Endless capacity to love. Finding broken things. Keepsakes. Nostalgia. Parks, zoos, museums, galleries, and monuments. Going on road trips. The curve of the lips. The complexity of the mind. The brevity and magnitude of a single breath and a single blink. How people laugh. Throwback feelings. The entirety of a moment. From dusk till dawn. Smiley faces in texts. Beauty and intricacy of languages. Hellos. Discovering new songs. Finding new hobbies. Our ability to learn. The present. The distance between the eyes. Finding love and friendship. Staring at the midnight sky and wondering to the stars. Photographs, handwritten letters, books and masterpieces.
This gives me warm, fuzzy feelings aw. I want you to know that it’s okay if you haven’t finished anything yet. That’s what makes writing beautiful - when it’s not rushed or forced. Just write down whatever is on your mind. Jot notes of everything. You don’t have to create full, long poetry or prose. Sometimes, I just write a sentence or two on my journal of something that passed my mind. Write down what you wonder about. I wish you the greatest on your writing endeavors, dear anon. If you get to write a poem or something, I’d love to read it! :)
You could always talk to him about it. Let him know he’s being an idiot or whatever it is you want to tell him, maybe including the fact that you like him. Maybe it’ll be good to get it out there, you know? Then if he still treats you the way he’s doing right now, then you can walk away with fewer, if there’s even any, regrets because you said your side and expressed your feelings.
It’s definitely okay. Not everything has to be rushed. Most of the best things in life don’t have to come right away. The journey can be just as satisfying as the end point.
(NJ.) // don’t tell me I haven’t lived
I don’t really know how late is too late. I just think it’s still important and good that you still showed it to her and let her know about the situation.
I think you can just be honest with your best friend, dear anon. Honesty and communication are important. It’s better for her to find out from you by you telling her than for her to find out from someone else, you know?
Hey, I already wrote stuff about missing someone, so there you go :)
I love a touch I haven’t felt yet, and I want my skin to kiss yours,
my hands to entwine with yours and my lips to capture your smile.
I crave the exhales from your lungs and the warmth of your eyes.
If only I can bottle up your laugh through the hour-long phone calls.
If only I can trace your frown lines through the screen.
If only I can taste the words escaping your lips.
I run my fingers across the map, imagining it’s your skin,
feeling every freckle, every curve, every beautiful imperfection.
I am whispering your name against the darkness,
hoping the sound travels across thousands of miles,
and you’ll hear the tremor of my voice from where you are.
My love, I know I cannot wipe away your tears with my hands
or settle down with bliss next to you
or spend cold nights and warm days in your arms,
but I am choosing you and your 1 am messages
and the empty, cold bed and the winded sighs of your name.
I ache for your touch to seep into mine
and I know someday we’ll be skin on skin,
but for now, I’m settling with a “Good morning, love. I miss you”
when all I really want to do is walk home with you -
and I envy the sky for seeing you every day.
You’re angry. You’re angry at the world for the constant spoonfuls of bitterness and the whirlwind of mistakes and sorrows. You’re angry at people who let you down, who twisted your insides and made you cower, who held you too delicately, who didn’t even hold you at all, who creased your soft edges, and who gave you a recording of black-smeared memories playing on endless loop. You’re angry at fate for whatever circumstances it created for you and whatever path it led you to. You’re angry at the heavens for the numerous dark hours and the seemingly perpetual thunderstorms. You’re angry at yourself for giving up or holding on, for being too much or not enough, for failing, for trying, for oversimplifying your strengths or for overdramatizing your weaknesses, and for who you were and who you are. You’re angry at so many things. Don’t you ever get tired of being so bitter and so angry? How does your heart take all the stab wounds and the crushing blows? When will you stop treating life as gateway to death?
You are like the radiance to my shadows.
You with such warmth,
I’d like to wrap myself in.
Let’s collapse into laughter
from dusk till dawn.
I want to know your dark hours,
your untamed storms,
and your hidden stories.
You with such kindness,
I’d like to discover more.
Everything is brand new,
and you’re a breath of fresh air.
Such potential and possibility
for our friendship to evolve
and to last a lifetime.
Tell me where you’re going tomorrow,
and I’d like to go there with you,
Writing is exhausting sometimes. Basically you’re sitting there, and you’re unraveling yourself into pieces. You’re either stabbing your heart and soul as your pen bleeds on paper or you’re distorting your already confused thoughts as you find the right words to express what you want to say. But in many cases, it’s both. Call me a masochist, but I’m still going to write and write and write until it seems like I’m all out of words. Then I’m going to write some more.
I’ve sort of been running. Running forwards. Running backwards. Running to the sides. Running away. But underneath it all, past the curtain of shadows and the veil of artificiality, I want to run towards myself. I keep on grappling for things meant to drag me down rather than build me up. I keep reaching out a hand towards something unknown, something seemingly full of life, something that might tame the loneliness residing in my soul. I keep calling out and searching for a projection of what might be. I think I need to retract my hand, look deep inside myself, and ignite what is there already. I need to run and run and run towards myself. Towards who I was and who I am. Towards the dormant passions and buried strengths. I keep asking for more, wanting more, that I’m losing my wildfire in pursuit for something paler. I need to bring myself back. I have to remember that I need to just be.