When you did your best
but your best is not enough
When you pour your life and blood and insides out
and you sacrifice everything else
and it is still not enough
When every step up is two steps down
and everything you do is an uphill trudge.
Shouldn’t it be something like
Do your best and everything else will turn out okay?
Yet life doesn’t seem to work that way
Suddenly you found life has its own rules
that you are not aware of,
and hidden tunnels
and sinking holes
that you never sign up for.
I’m confused, you say.
How did everything turn out like this?
It used to be rainbows and fairs
and cotton candies and laughters that
never seem to end.
When did the rules change?
Now everything else you do
seems to turn into ashes
and dust moats
and a pile of stinking garbage
for the future generations to tread on.
Why did everything change?, you asked
but no answers came,
just the sound of the howling wind passing by
and with every minute
you are left with a growing anxiety
that never stops.
– – –
In response to Daily Post: Confused and Inspiration Monday: Dust Moat
It is the feeling of tiredness that creeps on you even if you haven’t done anything all day long. It is the crying spells that overtakes you when you are finally left all alone after a long day of pretending to be okay. It is the waking up every 2AM with your thoughts all jumbled up and morose. It is the desire to sleep all the time, to stubbornly stay on bed, and be continually lost in dreams that never makes sense. It is wanting to be somewhere that isn’t really here on the here and now. It is the staring contest at the ceiling, when you finally found a temporary peace in finding no thoughts, no chaos, no feelings, just a deep hollowed numbness at the center of your being.
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If we were having coffee, I would tell you about my dreams. I would tell you how I used to dream of being in a circus surrounded by lively music and people wearing colorful dresses and tunics, people that work together and bonded as family. I would tell you I dreamed of being a trapeze artist, always up high in the air, flying from loops to loops, light as air, and feet never touching the ground. I would tell you that I love heights. I love the feeling of falling and the feeling of excitement and hope it gives me, the hope that maybe when I jump, this time I would fly.
If we were having coffee, I would tell you that maybe I have a gypsy soul in me, the kind that can read palms and sees the future, the kind that is affected by the moon’s waxing and waning, the kind that would kiss a stranger because she has already met him in one of her dreams.
If we were having coffee, I would also tell you that I grew up shy, that I have soft bones, loose joints, and weak heart, and I am affected by loud noises and music. I would also tell you that my dreams are mostly nightmares, that my moods are worsts than the moon, and that I have seen him in my dreams, but when I met him, he’s already kissing someone else.
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“Let me get lost.”
There is a desire that resides deep within her soul to run away. To escape to an unknown future. To wander around eternally, without destination, without home in sight.
It is always there just beneath her skin, humming in her veins, vibrating on her bones, just barely on the back of her mind, always within grasp.
To carve a new path. To start a new adventure, a new life. To change her name, her looks, her identity, and personality. To forget. To go somewhere where no one knows her. To start all over again. To never look back.
To never get back.
Stutter those words.
I could feel the words rising on the tip of my tongue only for it to vanish on the thin air.
Two years ago, I could spin and weave words and write with such an ease that looking back now, I wonder how I did it.
Yet two years ago, I also killed my muse.
Pain and heartbreak can make you do that.
Not knowing then that I am destroying and killing an integral part of me: the part of me that allows me to write, and view the word in colored lens made of words, and images and visions, crafted together by phrases and syllables, and punctuation, and sealed permanent with ink (or sometimes, with hitting that Publish button).
Now, I feel like I am back on being a toddler on its first word, learning again how to talk, and connect words in such a way that it brings harmony to my all too incoherent thoughts.
Stutter those words.
Type it down. Backspace. Type it again.
I could feel the words rising on the tip of my tongue, pressing down on my fingers. I was able to catch two or three words in the air, enough for me to finish this post.
Today, I will convert his winter smile to summer laughter
I will transform his cold translucent skin to a warm glowing ember
I will turn his blue frozen lips to a bloodied hungry mess.
We will bathe and swim and he will smell like the ocean’s mist
and his skin will taste like sea salt and sunshine
His grey eyes will reflect the clear blue sky
And for a moment he will thought that his eyes were blue too.
The ocean will whisper to him the secrets of the universe
And I will look in his eyes, hoping he hears and understands.
We will lay in the sand with my head in his chest, as I listen..
Today, I will give a life to his non beating heart.
My entry for this week’s #FWF Free Write Friday: Quote Prompt.
I could almost hear again the snow falling, landing softly on the cold concrete floor of that unknown alley. He was walking away from me, and I couldn’t help but to just stare at him, at his broad shoulders, and his slow walking gait as if something was paining him. I could almost hear him sigh every now and then.
He was walking away, and I had a vague feeling that he’s walking away from me.
I wished, even until now, that he would stop and turn so I could see his face. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He walked on and on, as I stared on and on until his figure vanished and melted and blurred with the vast whiteness under the night sky.
That’s my mind’s first memory and probably my heart’s last.
– – –
#FWF Free Write Friday: Time and Place Scenario entry.