subject: so i say...
time: 10:55pm
music: love story theme song instrumental
mood: nostalgic.

. fairy tale story book lover .

i must say. u sucessfully suceeded in not knowing me as this. this .... always the instable girl. i wander around my room wondering, when my wallpapers started peeling? when the stars stopped glowing? i dont spend my time thinking better. like when i say "forever", how come it always mean "never"? my past is a memory cache; i am torn between wanting for it to remain intact or, disappear altogether by some miraculous bout of amnesia that singles out experiences i don't need to recall to maintain my own sanity. it gets too quiet inside my head sometimes. but i would like to think the disquieting clamour is successfully contained within a minute, anonymous fraction of my mind that is periodically shut off to the rest of whatever ability that is left of me to comprehend. for all the commotion that has been carefully collected over the years, i might have grown too attached to this cynicism to want to separate myself from it, even if living with this pointless despair allows it to multiply within days; fatal bacteria. but i am willing to let it go. i have to breathe to live. let go and let live. believe to live. live to love. talk to me. i promise to listen.
****

. feeler .

if i sit still enough, i feel everything; an influx of emotions crash upon me, wave after wave so i see only black. i am alice in the wonderland. a feeler, i can feel everything. i can feel all the small things - the ground beneath my feet trembling from the bus a few meters away, the gentle slam of the door, the cold air. i can feel my heart, my hair, every nerve, my feet, my hands and lips that incessantly promise and lie to promise to lie. i can feel the greater things like miracles and magic, flying brooms, goblins, cupid's arrows and faeries tumbling, beneath my feet i can feel the world move, rotate slowly. if i close my eyes long enough, in the periphery of my vast black vision, i can see time forever. i can understand how it has no beginning and no end. always always just a black continuum spiraling into an abyss of white and black checkered light.

****

. thorns and roses .

of what i am nothing more of ... i begin a paragraph with a thought and end with another. have you ever dreamt of writing in black so black? aimless and searching? always looking for eternity, we're always looking for something/ someone. it just seems to stain; born in a crevice, infectious and contagious - spreading. they forget it in me. i'm not an ordinary person. not even less-than ordinary. a whole other spectrum all my own, treading beneath some obscure boundary. inevitability. how can i call myself a writer if nothing ever make sense? where is my framework? where is my structure? these questions come like arrows; fast and sharp but archery is a sport not for pointlessness but accuracy. i must be that contestant with an apple on her head, only that the arrow misses its target and pierces my mind instead. i guess precision was never my forte. i speak in riddles. i write in jargons and fallacies. i even work best in clumsiness and fragmentations. perhaps, framework is necessary? but when a writer is most comfortable in thorns n' have fallen into the habit of conveninently disregarding all the pretty roses around her, what then do you make of her art?

inaptitude foolishness?