a shallow and mad journal
Un-rhymed lines and broken heart stories. A poem made over grammar mistakes. Every words between every colors.
It is always easier to write about darkness, madness, and anger. It is easier to write in loneliness and sorrow. It is easier to be brokenhearted and painted mute colors. Sometimes, channeling deepest darkness and countless sorrow is good for a boost for your next artsy project. Besides, all the greatest love song is made from brokenhearted tale.
But I’m going to stop there, because like me, you already know when to stop.
In an empty dark room, when no one had come. With empty table and a lot of chairs. I sat down hours before the sun rose or the light turned on. It usually doesn’t take that long.
There were memories about nonsense talking and senseless laughing. But when you look around this time, no sound would be heard. As if we are all putting our ear bud on. Faded music vividly heard once or twice. And our attempt to revive the surrounding feeling would have come to sour. There’s this bunch of new people coming up. Occupying large portion of the neighborhood. I’ve seen this before somewhere. I remember this feeling before.
The last time, I was the one who left. Now, it’s the other way around. It doesn’t feel that bad. Truthfully, it doesn’t feel at all.
Maybe we’re just being mean.
Maybe we are not sad at all.
Maybe we just wanted a conversation topic.
Maybe we just love to see soap opera.
Maybe we can’t stop blaming others.
Maybe we just wanted to punch somebody.
Maybe we forget how to be human.
Maybe we forget how to love.
Maybe we forget to take a bow.
To the ocean, to the sky, to you.
Tonight, let’s called early and hope.
Hoping for them, to stay under moonlight and amongst the stars.
Landing in enormous twilight sky.
Dear beautiful faces, until we meet again, you will be loved.
PS: Being a part of community in a vast stream of information, is hard. We are becoming part of people we used to hate. Becoming more of a person we avoid in the past. In that kind of situation, stop for a minute and take a breath, look around, and ask yourself few questions. Who you are, what you are doing, how you get there.
I miss her this morning. This particular morning, where I find peace with other floating things in universe. Finding myself between million conversation and gazillion collision, of life and death.
I don’t know how to greet her nor guessing what conversation that we will be having. Years ago, maybe I’d pick up my guitar and burst into Oasis’ She Is Love. But I grew up, I’ve been to some places and met many people. She did too. She ain’t love anymore. I just miss her terribly.
I never wonder if she ever thinks the same way. She won’t. I know every inch of her thoughts and I probably know why she left me. But I don’t hold anything against her, I know her. I’m just hoping she’ll ever find someone to settle her in.
Someday, somewhere.
I miss her this morning. This particular morning where everything collide on the perfect order, creating mere conspiracy of the chance of holding her again. For just a second before she’s being her, and I’d go on with my terrible lying of loneliness.
Maybe I’m just being sentimental. Maybe there’s really something between me and her that is still hiding between those days. Those silent days that suddenly become years, and I don’t know whether I will ever see her again.
I want to see you.
And you’ll know that’d be the last conversation we’ll ever had.