I’m super exhausted from work today but it is scary cos it’s my favorite kind of high.
The fulfillment I get…like an andrenaline rush.
I wonder if people feel the same way?
I wonder what version others have?
I’m struggling to find other facets in life that can give me such vibe. I know there’s more to life than this.
There are tiny versions like helping others or coffee picking or wandering but it is not as “makes-me-oblivious” kind.
I’m struggling to find ways to heal the hurt.
I’m struggling to find means to forget.
The days filled with bruises outlived the bliss
Each waking day turns into nostalgia
Reliving the unfinished “IT”
Regrouping all my false belief
Opening and closing each day become the hardest
They remind me so much of my defeat
Even as I recreate my days and crack in laughter
Thoughts suddenly seep and quickly, I just go back in bleak
I smile and smile right in front of the people who love me
The people who wishes to make me happy, but the sadness haunts me
I see you in every car, in every city
Your ghost won’t just leave
My mind has decided it is not worth it,
I know I should have long taken a flight
It’s clear you arent my knight
My mind’s made up but my heart…
My heart is still crawling from the dark alley now branded with fright.
It is in our most emotional, vulnerable state that we pen our best or worst love letters.
But through this we find healing.
When our mind’s in constant battle with our heart and the forces beyond our control, writing becomes the safest option.
It is when we forget about those who might read our sighs and be judged are overpowered by our need to release all the pain.
Likes sketches, like half-finished drafts
We write and write until the world becomes different.
We will write and write in pain
Until the words turn into better emotions
We drop each bitterness bomb
Until we’re visited again by life-changing inspirations.
There’s a glasshouse on a hill.
People pass by and appreciate its beauty.
They wonder though why it remains empty.
Some visit the space from time to time.
Checking what’s inside.
They come along but they always realise the glasshouse seems so cold to stay overnight.
Until one time a young man with a lamp barged in.
The glasshouse was used to gentle knocks but not by visitors with flames within.
Surprised the glasshouse opened all of its doors.
Defying the flames that melt the icy corridors.
Warmth and light illuminated the walls, ceiling and floor.
The village rejoiced.
Alas the glasshouse turned from shades of white and blue to a spectrum of hues.
Everyone noticed, everyone cheered.
But the lamp he brought wasn’t meant for a long term thing.
Like some who tried to reached the top of the hill, they turn their back once the fire needs a little more effort to sustain its constant heating.
Despite the glasshouse’s yearning, it cannot force anyone to stay on top of the hill.
The glasshouse was left with nothing but cracks out of collission of fire and ice.
The seasson will change and snow will fill the cracks or hope to find a way to let all the ice go.
Until then this glasshouse will mourn on top.
Awaiting for a strong hunter to roam.
Hoping the next will be more than just a pit stop.
Until the day this glasshouse turns into someone’s home.
This could be a little less eloquent as I am writing in a strange fashion such as spontaneity.
I am not one.
It is so soothing for me whenever I have all things clearly defined.
And today, and in the days to come, I may have to jump to uncertainties.
All brilliant articles are saying things will be fine.
Confusion and being lost are good for the soul.
Hundreds and hundreds of assuring words.
Still, I remain terrified.
And as the hasty sunset kiss the dusk.
I quietly plead for light.
With only hope is the star from afar
I jump and dive and take the flight.
Cos in between the fear and fright
I hear my heart whisper,
There’s no other way to see the dawn but to endure the passing of the night.
Regular people either get a halt or a nod.
In highways, we either move in green,slow down in orange and heed to red for a full stop.
There’s that dancing man who signals you when exactly to cross and you have a clock to beat.
The streets will always provide a whistle or a beep.
There’s always a prompt.
You always get life as it is.
But maybe I am no regular.
Cos other people get a yes or a no.
A hi or just go.
Hang on or let go.
There’s always a clear yes or no.
I’d like to put it in a way that I see the good in this crazy life.
Would rather succumb to this delight than be eaten by the greyness of the night.
Laugh in the dark.
Shake off all the fright.
Maybe the One UP THERE loves to see the beauty I throw up in the midst of obscurity.
To be stuck in in-betweens and unsettling I don’t know’s.
Maybe the angels are giggling when I stay quiet by this sheer ambiguity.
as others receive a moving on note …I get a laugh and an innocent nope.
They say rejection is mean and bad and unfair.
I guess the absence of answer is some cross they never had the chance to bear.