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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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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Read up; part 57.

Sometimes she actually yearned to want something, so much that she could hardly bear it. It seemed so vital, wanting things. But usually the feeling passed.


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Auburn sunsets, twilight creeps in.

Taking a year off things would probably sketch out an entire coherent idea of what possibilities would turn into when you envisage them from a fixed position. A position that likely gives in to an amount of anxiety that overwhelms you, strangles your feeble emotions because reality supposedly wants those very ideas of yours to fit into the roles they assigned it to. Even when you politely decline the sincerest invitation you could ever receive in this momentary occasion, somehow it keeps ringing your doorbell, presenting a Cheshire cat’s grin, mocking your sense of logic deep within.

You can’t help but ponder upon certain actions and decisions you had made in the past, just to conclude on the bestowment of luck that would eventually turn its back on you at the very last minute. The minute where you finally made your own footprints visible at the end of the finishing line. From all these strange prophecies you gather inside out, discovering endless meanings hidden in between written sentences or passages that your eyes had devoured on from the first chapter, sometimes you subtly wonder why any of it would even help out a weakening soul, deafening silence guarding the whole of its central system.

Nights and days didn’t make its cut. Differentiating between the two was as similar as gathering strength bound for a ride that doesn’t require the need to decimate an entire problem that would meander through the same route. It goes on as you walk in circles to the same region of confusion without no further destination that may allow you to peek through the blinds, hoping for warmth. Comfort surrounding every shivering bone, blanketing convoluted thoughts as a reward for the starry darkness gifted above you. You’re stumbling without light to guide you through, just as how a drunkard loses grip of the bottle of its red wine, letting it slip from those dainty fingers, as far as the abyss would want it to.

How can such pain portray beauty that marks its own way without needing permission from another destruction destined to overcome you, ruthless dreams that force out tears to be shared on the sheets of your bed, amazes you, as to how you can still remarkably see stardust gleaming in the reflection staring back at you. Perhaps walking on thorns felt like clouds for the minority, and perhaps this specified entitlement as to how you differ from the rest enables a chance that dimly lits your sight, still and hopefully, perfecting its incandescent being into one that has open arms for the hopeless upcoming nights.



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