The next thing.

Faith, rationality.

I gather up the strength to have perseverance in maintaining the roles that I am assigned to in my life. Most of the time I felt cheated by the thought of how pathetically fake one’s soul can be in performing those duties. There is nothing to be blamed for it. A pattern is systematically put into this human database for us to follow, and it all depends on how professional we handle it. Some would like to adhere as to how these principles work, others would somehow want to venture on other possibilities that can help them go through most of what is not seen based on their wildest dreams. What comes next after being either completely off boundaries or sternly fastidious, is how one would want things to go just as they planned it to be.

I’m still in my 20s. Nothing exciting about it, a hint of thrilling remarks here there as to what I can expect but still the same old journal entry of the day from start to finish even if I wake up the next morning to start on something entirely brand new. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no complaint to be filed and a desire for someone to indulge me in things just to make me feel spoiled, it’s just the lingering discontentment of knowing how you operate on a daily basis of making no complete sense as to what you’re initially doing. I’m starting to pick up similar sentiments on how much I reiterate the fact of being frightened in my posts.

It’s never wrong to embrace that side of yourself and it’s definitely okay to figure out how you can confront it rather than hiding this persona that has been continuously developing deep within throughout the years. The scary thing about wanting to make your first approach towards it is how you just ended up with a muddled mind desperately wanting another’s insincere commiseration. Not that everyone would feel that way but that’s just how the world takes its view on it. From all the rules that I am bound to follow, the instructions I am tied to just to survive, I get frightened just trying to keep up. The restrictions I have on me, this anxiety that builds up making me feel as if I’m drowning in this whirlpool of anguish and the depression that hits right after it, that scares me more than anything.

How I can possibly go up to my own finish line and put up a presentation that may disappoint my one and only goal that I’d held onto. Faith was there, always is, but what if that’s not good enough to live up to all the rebellious moments I’d done. The ability to search for comfort even when there’s a list of actions of betraying what was always right next to you. I know it’s all about finding out and learning the step and going through its progress with steadfast loyalty, I’m just afraid that the standards of what I’d set on this pedestal won’t match up to the expectations I’d permanently decided to engrave inside me.

Yet I’m still blindly wandering past all the alleyways and maybe, hopefully, find a doorbell to press on just to lead me.



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Read up; part 60.

“I may not be the greatest dancer in the world, but when I come home, I am going to take you Christmas dancing every single year. We will dance to Count Basie at Minton’s on Christmas Eve while he plays ‘Polka Dots and Moonbeams.’ And at that moment I will be the best dancer in the world, because I am dancing with the best woman in the world. And we will do that every year until we die.”


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To whom it may concern.

You know who you are- I give a lot of respect to whatever I’m writing because I know this is the only place that I can call home in a figurative way. It probably sounds as demented as you think it is when you read the sentence again and again but I don’t give a shit about what your thoughts have to say because this is where I express my vulnerability as a human being. It doesn’t take much to repress the need of feeling as if you have the right to go against what I believe is sacred and that makes me unbelievably mad because you would consider that it’s alright to share this space I’d created on my own.

Who gives a shit what you have to say if you can’t take a fucking hint after all these years of trying to leave comments under my posts as if it’s considered heroic and romantic. I try not to become the kind of person who would carelessly throw about her issues to the public because I care about how my anxiety can cause even more havoc than what others would like to give their two cents about it. I relayed the message from my best friend to you to stop harassing me with your stupid ass ‘oh if we can only talk just this one time, pls contact me through Instagram etc’ (I mean really are you serious Instagram what are you even thinking) and that we would be on good terms but you still can’t take a fucking hint.

I have my limits. I act based on what I think is right for me and if you can’t respect my right of wanting to prevent myself from talking to someone like you, who only gave me traumatizing memories that I wished I would never have to go through, then you just can’t handle the pressure of realising your faults by trying to make up for it in the manner of wanting to speak to me for God knows what kind of bullshit reason. There’s no bad blood, leave me the hell alone to live life the way I would want to pave it. This isn’t a Disney fairytale you can surprisingly wish to act out, my heart is set wherever the hell it wants to and you would never have the power to influence it no matter what you do.

Stop begging me with your indecisive childish sentences on my blog posts. I have no hatred left to give out and I still would never like to utter anything that would make things as nice as a flower bed for you to step on. Thank you and I hope everything goes well, so for the love of God stop disturbing me.

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There’s something raw about realising how your initial prophecy towards something can be moulded into a bigger picture. A certain feeling that leaves your senses tingling for more, to know what’s hidden behind a scene, a moving persona hinting secrets behind closed curtains. At some point, you begin to initiate an actual journey to the meanings that can or can not be disclosed to your heart’s content. Sometimes you get lost in the depth of its deprived soul, yet you were still allowing yourself to uncover the genuineness of its state of mind. The empathy that you were able to relate to marking its footsteps with transparency in order to let you trail behind it.

I’d always let myself be immersed in that arabesque pattern of an adventure. To be shown a selection of genres to choose from, and to express the art of reasoning with it in an intimate way. It feels like staring into the distance, crisp air surrounding the room and nudging you from time to time, letting you know that this mirage is perhaps another gateway to knowing, better yet to understand what was left behind just to make me happy. Coming across records of soothing voices, a brand new chapter of an unknown language knocking gently on oaked doors, I get to experience how bittersweet some things can be.

It scares me. How things like this can allow you to feel differences in a form of unity. A cohesiveness that gives you the enlightenment of provoked pain as well as the caress of a beautiful soul looking up towards you. To even be granted with the responsibility of thinking through thoughts like these, the what-ifs would be tagging along, giving out signals and detailed plans of an emergency exit to an abyss I wouldn’t want to fall into. It comes all in one note and there’s nothing left but to comprehend the motive of it all. An unfamiliar audience would’ve pronounced it as a deceiving opening act, evoking nothing but despair as its denouement.

But what if I don’t want it to end that way. Just to acknowledge how much grace the movements of these figures can give me, letting me convince myself that a bookmark was finally placed on my most cherished page. It still seems just as distant as reality would want me to see it. There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s just the act of giving into what I wanted to be my whole entire world, appreciating every bit of love I would like to present, the decency of wearing it on my torn sleeves. I never meant it to be just as magical as it sounds, even from all the cloudy days that gathered together for a tempest of war, I would still love to be enveloped within it. That’s where my heart is, in all its safety, unbeknownst, probably always to all of them but yet lingering with its might and glory.



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12 am secrets.

There’s an easel at the corner of the room with a prepared canvas ready to be stroked with colours defining that crucial moment of abruptness. A palette held by frail hands wanting to imagine a scenery that could swallow all the emotions evoked deep within with impartiality. The strong scent of paint pervading the room with its own gallant dignity, wanting to prove that her summer cologne would and can always be replaced from its aching dream.



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Read up; part 59.

Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety, it shows itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or protestations.


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Read up; part 58.

It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined.


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