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Prose, Random Thoughts, Writings

Blackness within blackness

She feels so lost. So empty, like a blank black canvass in a dark tunnel without end light, a black gaping hole in an eternal doom pit. Everything inside her is so dark. She couldn’t even see the end. Is there even an end? Or is where she’s standing an end already?

She is trying. She’s trying with all her might to find the edges of this darkness. As if this darkness is a page where she could just flip it over and be done with it.  Yet it doesn’t seem like that. Her hands are stretched in her front, ready for anything she could grab on—a support, a wall, just anything. A stumbling block is even better than this encompassing nothingness.

Yet there is nothing.

Her fingertips are numb with the coldness around her. Her mind is surprisingly blank.  And there is that haunting silence. Not even a white noise. And she is craving for noises, noises that would penetrate this blackness, noises that would aim at her heart, vibrate in her bones, and pierce her soul.

Yet there is nothing.

Just blackness.

She couldn’t feel herself anymore.

Her breathing is slowly fading.

She is slowly fading.

Sinking into darkness.

And before everything turns to nothing, she utters something beneath her breath. Words that are instantly lost in the darkness, lost before it could even reach anyone, or anything.

Then there is nothing.

On Dreams, Prose, Writing Entries, Writings

Forever

He never listened. He hears, but he never listened to her. She wails and weeps, and pleads but he does nothing.

The first time they met was eons and thousands of centuries ago, in the beginning of time when Earth isn’t yet, and when their wings immortal still reflect the brilliant pureness of their souls.

But things soon changed, when Earth and Man are created.

One-third of them fell. All with different yet mostly shared reasons. Some fell due to pride, others with growing greed in their souls, several fell due to corporeal lust, some with the passion to rule and know more, and a select few to have earthly wisdom and experiences like that of Man.

She was one of them.

But unlike the others, she was the only one who fall for this reason: she falls in the idea of love, an all-consuming burning earthly love.

“Let a man love me.” Her wish had damned her.

And so all of them were cast out of Heaven, and was hurled down to the Earth. She was the last one to be thrown out.

He was the judge at that time, the appointed executor of the judgments among their kind.

She was at her knees while he was standing behind her, reading her sentence. His voice was cold, impassioned, and almost cruel.

As he was reading, the ground started shaking, and for a moment, she feared not for her soul but for the safety of this place she considered Home.

With one last look, she pleaded to him even if she knew that he couldn’t possibly do anything to change her punishment. Yet still, with a soul that starting to become more human than a being with wings, she hoped. She hoped that he would at least look at her with pity or sorrow for her plight.

But her eyes were met with a cold chilling stare. The ground beneath her collapsed and she fell.

She fell with a half-cry of his name in her mouth.

– –

Fast forward a million and thousands of thousands of years, they met again.

She is a human now, or so she thinks. With no recollection of whatsoever of the past, and with a soul that must be so stubborn that she made the same mistake again.

This time, she wished the opposite wish of what she desired before.

“Let an angel love me.”

What a stubborn soul. He said. It took me forever to make the tides turn and make her first wish come true.

So he never listened. He hears, but he never listened to her. She wails and weeps, and pleads but he does nothing.

He would not let her fall without catching her this time.

And this is true: he loves her, with an all-consuming burning earthly love.

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Inspired by #FWF Free Write Friday: Quote Prompt and my previous dream.

Prose, Writing Entries, Writings

Je nais se quoi

She loves the smell of old books, the way it has a power to transport her back in time. She loves running her fingers through its ancient pages, hoping it may whisper to her the forgotten secrets of the universe.

She loves looking at the stars at night, when the sky is clear and the moon is shining full and bright. It makes her believe that magic is within her grasp and miracles are within every shooting star.

She believes in fairies and dragons, and angels most of all. It fascinates her endlessly giving colors and curves to the squares and straight lines of this material world.

Yet not be mistaken. She isn’t all sweetness and pink frosting, for she’s nowhere near.

Every night, she gets nightmares and she ends up waking at the middle with tears-stained pillow, with death in her eyes, and curses of tragedy in her words.

She knows that light and darkness are created hand in hand. That demons exist as much as angels do. She knows darkness tangibility in and out like the lines of her palm, she even kissed it passionately at centuries past, yet this does not stop her to be afraid.

When you see her, she’ll be looking straight in your eye, unwavering and searching. And you will wonder what she is made of. Is it light or darkness? Is it a fairy godmother’s wish or a witch’s curse? A pixie’s dust or a mortal’s ash? An angel’s breath or a demon’s fury?

Every time you think of her, you will wonder. But you will never quite grasp the answer.

But by this, you will know it’s her.

You will know it’s her when you suddenly realize that you’re not looking at her eyes anymore, but you are looking straight through her, and what you see isn’t her but yourself. The best you can possibly be.

She is beautiful, indeed. Otherworldly beautiful.

 

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Inspired by the lovely prompt from #FWF Beautiful People

Prose, Random Thoughts, Writings

Not yet

She poised her pen to the paper, ready to bleed all the words out, as if by so doing she would be able to purge all her memories of him. But as soon as she started to think of the words she would write about him and of their love that gone wrong, and about the realities that turned illusions, she realized she’s not yet ready.

She’s not yet ready to let it all go, to let go of him and of their story, to put an end to it. Not yet.

But she knows that next time she will be able to write it all down—she must—and put a period to this chapter as she would never ever let this be the ending.

Prose, Random Thoughts, Writings

Your love must be empty

The glass used to be half-full, never full. I drank its contents and settled it down, it’s half-empty. When things get rough, I drank some more. And a little bit more, and another more. Until I was so caught up with the taste it leaves on my lips that I forgot.. Nothing lasts forever. I looked at the glass.

The glass must be empty.

Prose, Writing Entries, Writings

I’m counting his music

He sits there as he usually do, strumming music as ancient as his soul might have been.

It is a song I’m not familiar to, or maybe because of years of captivity in this underground nothingness, where every day is night and all colors merge into black, I already forget the songs I once enjoyed listening to, songs of love, of fun, of sadness, and anything that is pop and in hype.

I don’t know what’s happening above now. I don’t even know how I came to be alive until now. I don’t even know why I am here.

But I count.

I count the days since I got here. And that’s what he didn’t know.

And that’s why I know something weird is going on, not just because he kidnapped me in which I could recall just like yesterday, but because I’m stuck here in a rut, in a cold underground bunker, with nothing but him and his heavenly ancient music I anticipate everyday that is now as constant as the steady beating of my heart.

And he’d never given me anything yet I still exist.

No food, no water, no anything. Just the music that wakes me up each day, making me mark another day.

It’s been 55, 482 days now.

And I’m born in 1911.

 

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In response to #FWF Free Write Friday: Time and Place Scenario.

And as requested by A. I. Sajib, here is my promise little fiction for you! Though I’m not entirely sure this would fall as ‘cute’ one. 🙂

On Dreams, Prose, Random Thoughts, Writing Entries, Writings

Take me to the sky

There’s something about rooftops and heights and buildings that makes me want to live, and jump, and die, and laugh, and fall in love, and cry, all at the same time.

I’m in love with heights. I love the scenic view of anything from above. No matter what it is, even if it’s just a view of garbage pile, I don’t really mind as long as I’m on up above, above the world’s care, above the people’s chatter below, above the lines of honking cars that piles up creating the typical Monday traffic.

I guess it’s the peaceful feeling that comes with it. Of being above. The kind of peace that makes all the noises and voices in my head stop. And I crave for that feeling, that feeling of stillness and of calm nothingness.

So it’s not too much to ask I guess
to be on the world’s highest building
on a windy cold midnight
and with the moon shining in the clear sky
then waking up the next day
with nothing but a vague feeling
tugging at my heart
for the rest of my life.

Maybe, I have been already in that place. That place that haunts me on my sleep when I was young, that special place that I haven’t been on yet but am familiar like the back of my hand, a place I don’t even know if it exists.

And sometimes when the vision persists you can’t help but wonder if it happened in some past lives or some dream that you can’t remember anymore.

 

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Inspired by #FWF Free Write Friday: Ponder This…