31-08-2016.

06:17

My favourite day is Friday, and not Saturday, nor Sunday.

Friday.

Where I get to end my day without thinking of anything about the day after.
I always end my day with sitting alone, booking a certain meeting room for hours if I’m at the office, or just simply writing things at my desk if I’m home.
It’s not so much that Friday night is perfect that makes me love it.
Although, it undeniably is– the peace I get at Friday night is just awesome.
What makes my time at that moment so addictive and lovely to me is how peaceful the energy inside me is, that there is something about it that makes it pure.

There’s something about it– some energy that draws out good in people.
Maybe it’s simple, as simple as because the day after is weekend and people would actually be temporarily released from their daily busyness, but there’s something about Friday night that is kind of good and enchanting that makes you want to be fully unleash yourself at that very time.
I’m not saying that people can’t be naturally good, they could– we could.
Let me say that everyone has the capacity to be deeply good.
But it’s just all our shit that gets in the way and makes us hard.
For example, our packed schedules, our overthinking, our shitty habits, and so on.

We do live in a modern era that moves so fast, and faster now than ever before.
Especially with so many things grabbing our attention all the time.
Our inbox e-mails, social media notifications, texts, and even all the advertisement on our internet screens and ads on the side of the road.
It’s as if we are constantly encouraged to speed up, or at the very least we are constantly encouraged to keep up with everyone else.
And, sadly, so rarely do we find ourselves willing to slow down.
Like in her case, she always thinks that she does not have plenty of time.

I know that we have a lot of reasons for not wanting to slow down.
Slowing down, at times, can be painful.
It forces us to confront and sit with things that we would rather not shine a light on– that we have kept hidden so well all this time.
Yes, it puts us squarely in the present, the exact here and now, the only place where life is ever truly happening, and sometimes that clarity is more kindness and compassion than we’re comfortable giving to ourselves.
But the thing about slowing down is that it’s the only way to tap into who we really are, and thus, the only way to tap into that goodness too;
The kind that feels rare and incandescent when we encounter it in others;
The kind that we might secretly wonder if we could ever truly possess ourselves.

I think there are places in the world– in our reality, that help us slow down– that teach us of our own goodness– and that these places are the ones that we most need to carve out time to visit, that it becomes our sort of moral duty.
Because these are the places that help us experience awe and wonder, and really, fully breathe, and shed our egoistic mind– the part of us that is on overdrive and self-absorbed, that constantly worries and dwells.
There are places that make us kinder and more forgiving– they make us softer with the people we care about and with ourselves– we emerge from them more gentle.
And, as stupid as this sounds, this place, for me, right now, is my room.
Because it is not all about the place, it is about things that we do and the things that we dare and willing to perceive when we are in that place.

On another days, as in weekdays, I do bury myself within my work.
At weekdays, as I race through my days on overdrive, I know and I am aware that I isolate myself more and more, creating a belief of perceived difference between me and people around me that I encounter every single day.

To me, the gentleness I experienced when I slow down, is my most authentic and my most truthful state.
I know when I remind myself of my own goodness, I allow myself to see it more and more in others– I know that I give myself the space to experience the simple realization that we are all more similar than we are different.
That we are more connected than separate.
And that we yield a far more powerful belief in oneness.

But what is perhaps most magical and most important is how much more we tend to like ourselves when we are in this being honest state– this version of ourselves.
I feel like I am the closest to the person I want to be when I am at this state.
I feel like, whenever I emerge from it, I smile, and I say hi to people more.
And I will give out positive feelings more freely.
And, I could say that I do notice all the beauty around me that I typically sprint straight by because of the amount of work that I prioritize at weekdays.

In that solitude– in that space, it’s just so safe to be open and kind and patient to myself– that it’s safe to feel the love that I have for her instead of work, criticism, worries, fear, cynicism, sadness, and sorrow.
Isn’t that what we all want most– to know that it is just safe to not have to walk around with our full-plate heavy armor made of whatever it is that we wear everyday?
That we want to know that inside us, at our innermost core, we are truly and profoundly good, and that we have choice to access that part of ourselves everyday?

And, think about it: all we have to do is just slow the hell down.

Yet, for me, the love that I feel is overwhelming.
Oftentimes, for me, that love takes control of all of me.
Oftentimes, when I am being open to myself, I realize in the most honest form that I have to open up the cage that I put on my heart at weekdays.
And, when it breaks loose, the surge is immense.

I have loved a lot of things during my life.
Name it, name anything from simple old book to the most luxurious thing that I have.
Yet nothing has been the kind of love that I have for her, or the love that she gave back to me– that left me with a question I never wanted to ask:

What happens when you love a specific person even more than your passion?
Or rather– what do you do when a person IS your passion?

Maybe it’s too late for me.
I am deeply and madly in love, and knowing her, she’s just the best.
She’s beautiful, driven, kind, just the kind of girl I wouldn’t settle for less.
And in that place, in that seclusion, I have finally figured it out.
I’ve figured out the thing I want for life.
It is not writing, poetry, posts, adventures, or whatever it is bullshit that 20s trying to fulfill in their life– not even the goddamn work.

It’s loving her– it’s her.
The only thing I’ve ever wanted is her.

….

Dear Love,

Go on, call me idiot on putting you as my passion and dream.
But how could I stop that when you are just so lovely, and just so adorable?
If you ask in what aspect, then I would say every single thing that you have.

You look adorable when you laugh– when you give me a polite smile, because you didn’t think my joke was funny, or when I say something hysterical, but you don’t want to admit it, so you try your hardest to keep your laughter caged in your throat, only showing a hint of a smirk.
You look adorable when you are making a goofy face at the camera that no other person would consider cute– know that I think it’s all gorgeous.
Of course, Because it’s all you.

You look so lovely when you just get excited about something.
Anything– a book, a music, a video, a game, a random brochure, foods, whatever, it’s just does not matter what it is– it’s just doesn’t matter whether I could follow a word of what you are saying to me at that time.
I could and I would listen to you blab about it all day long.
I could listen, even if I genuinely did not care about the topic.
Because I do, care about you, your energy, and your happiness.
Most importantly, I do care about that smile of yours.

Another time, you look so dazzling when we simply lock eyes.
When you first see me and gave me that shy smile of yours at the airport, and told me about how beautiful the moment was without even saying the words to me.
When you glanced down at my lips as if you were inviting me in for a kiss.
Or when you simply nod your head along to whatever it is that I am saying, listening as intently as you can, even if I know you couldn’t possibly fully care about the boring and tedious things that I am rambling on about.

At times like this, you just look lovely when I picture you in my head.
Don’t get me wrong, the reality about you never disappoints me.
But you just always look just as stunning face-to-face as you do in my dreams and my fantasies, no matter how much I build you up in my head, nothing ever knocks the image down– you keep raising your pedestal higher and higher inside my heart.
You keep making me want you more without you even doing anything.

And, Love, the most adorable of all, is when you are writing.
When you write and pour out all the feelings that you have to the papers.
When you were sad, worried, filled with fear, or even filled with love.
You, with that stupid grin of yours that only you could have in this world.
You, with every word that you have that you’ve etched in your papers.
I read, and feel the words too many times.
Too profound, and too potent, that they pierce my heart again and again.
But I am willing be killed by the things that I love.
And do know that one of those things is you along with your words.

Know that it is my desire to be killed by you– that I live at the edge of your pen.
 

Love,
Yours.

V.A.C.W.

 


 

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28-08-2016.

19:27

Dear Love,

I don’t know if you’re out there reading this or something.
I know that you saw my previous posts.
Yet, I still don’t know what do you think about me,
And I still don’t know that you do every single day.
With that obliviousness, all I have right now is hope.
One hope that you will someday see all of my words.

That someday, you know that you never once left my mind.
Not even once.

Not even when we don’t talk to each other every single day.
Not even when all you did was reading my message, and automatically sent me a read receipt, and you didn’t even say anything back to me.
Not even when there’s slight feeling that you’re thinking about me, but you didn’t even bother trying to reach out to me.
Not even when I feel the familiar static of my body rejecting vulnerability and missing you coursing through my veins.
No, not even once.

Love, I’m hoping that you will someday see all my words.
And, more importantly, I’m hoping that I could say all of them to you.
I’m wishing that someday, you can finally hear everything I never said.
Because there’s a lot.

About how I forgive you, about how I never hate you,
And about how I never blame you for what happened to you and us.
And, I never said anything about whatever it is that is happening to me to anyone.
The only time I was mumbling about them was to the night sky months ago.
I’ll have you know that the stars is the only audience I’ve ever talked to and admitted to about how much I love you since that day.
That I’ve stupidly talked to them about how I miss your smile, and the way you smell, and the way I hugged you when we would fall asleep.
And I miss our time together.

And, I hope, right now you’re safe, and starting to be self-assured about how much you are capable of, and how much you could accomplish in your life.

Because I never hate you.
And, if you ask me, yes, I do forgive you.
And I don’t blame you.
And I do, love you.
And I’m hoping that someday you will finally hear everything I never said.

I know that you realize that I remember every single thing.
I remember everything about us– about you.
Like when we talked to each other about everything, while you were writing things about us in your magical book until the sun came up and we didn’t even immediately go to bed, because it felt like there were so much thing that we could talk about.
And when we laughed together with just one look at each other’s eye about how silly the tourist was because he was using chopsticks like spoon and fork.
And about how I was wondering why you could ate that much food with that little body of yours– and no, I didn’t even hold back when we were eating that day.
And about how I held you in my arms when we were talking about our secrets and things that we never talked about before that night.
And yes, I do remember the fights, but I remember the making up.
I do remember the tears, but I remember the heart.
I do remember the struggle, but I remember the ease.

I remember everything.
And I remember you.

Here’s hoping that one day, in the future, you will hear everything that I never said; that one day – and I hope it’s soon – both of us could tell each other on the things that we never said to each other before.
That maybe, we could tell each other that we do matter.
That we could know that all of the screaming, hostility, tears, mess, accidents, paranoia, insecurities, and even the heartbreak, was really worth it.
That we could know that we actually made for each other.
And that we both could know that we’re everything for each other.

And that day we’ll be completely okay– that we’ll be completely together.

I know that all of these might sound so one-way.
But, you have to know, I do wish that you are thinking the same thing with me.
That you are also hoping about you wish I could heart everything you never said.
That instead of both of us hoping about each other, we’ll just know about it.
That instead of messaging our friends about how much we we want each other to talk and message each other about our day, we’ll just do it to each other instead.
That instead of trying to force ourselves to remember how bright our smiles are, we could just tell each other about how much do we want to see each other’s smiles.

That, instead of hoping, it will just be.

But, for know, here’s hoping that someday you will hear everything I never said.
And here’s hoping that, that same someday is the day when we will be exactly what we need for each other and for ourselves.

And that, that same someday is the day where we will look at each other’s eye, and give the most lovely smile that we have– although you know nobody could beat yours.

Because, in us, I believe that nothing is impossible.
 

Love,
Yours.

V.A.C.W.

26-08-2016.

21:22

Dear Love,

I miss you.
And it’s not like I miss your face, arms, or lips.
it’s your presence that always reminds me of home.
And I swear I lost that when you left on that fateful day.
I just.. Never felt so homeless and alone.

I miss our texts, conversations, and all.
I’ll have you know that it took me three hours, all my sobriety, and being in a completely intoxicated state for me to be able to muster these longing words.
People could say anything that they want, but I swear that this whiskey tastes like you, and this empty glasses like our love, and there is nothing left to do but to fill them with another whiskey.
Anything, just anything that could fill and satisfy my thirst for you and your whole soul and its love.

I miss you.
And I might be afraid to say it.
But not here, not with all these words.
Not while these magics lit my madness– in being so crazy, driven head over heels for you.
No, these magics show me that there is an appeal to throwing yourself without feat into pursuit of what you want.

There is pain, yes, of course, there is pain when no one actually understands me– and maybe, no one possibly can.
But I believe there is a beauty in loving recklessly, wholly, and openly– that being brave about it opens up my life.
And most importantly, being brave opens up my heart.

Let me tell you, Love,
Openly loving you– you that lights up my eyes– is not crazy.

It is the bravest thing that I could do right now.
 

Love,
Yours.

V.A.C.W.

23-08-2016.

 

Sometimes missing you feels like a glimpse of light in a dark room.
It’s powerful, but the brightness could be blinding.

Sometimes, the darkness does not even exist–
Sometimes, the thought of you fill my heart and mind,
That it’s you, and only you– are all that I could see.

Sometimes, I found myself surrounded by another lights.
All in different colors: blue, red, green, yellow, pink–
Yet, all they could do is just putting me on spotlight,
Temporary fame– temporary feelings.
Lights that would go out anytime they want to.

Sometimes, I sit down, musing, looking at the light.
Do so, and the crowd around me disappear.
I don’t have to tell them that I am okay.
I don’t have to tell the world that I miss you,
Because I know that I am.

Because, all I know, that light of yours,

Is just seems so real to me more than anything.

 

23:49

21-08-2016.

23:59

I was talking to this co-worker of mine today.

We were talking about fine arts and some literary works.
We were discussing on why people paint and write things.
He said it was because of adoration.
I guess that was partly true.
I mean, some people that adore things – does not necessarily have to be people – would make things and arts that resembles the beauty that they adore.
The other part was, because what they made came from their feelings.
They need something to express what they feel.
I mean, adoration is a feeling too, now isn’t it?
The feeling could be love, anger, happiness, hate, jealousy, and so on.

And then I remember the things that I wrote.
Yes, all of them are actually came from different feelings.
Feelings that I’ve described above, and more.

But, I guess, people are not art.
I wrote numerous times about me and her.
About how I wrote that she is art, the most beautiful art.
That her life is a poetry– that she is living a poetry, and she is the most beautiful living poem there is in this universe.
But, no.
People are not art.

And she, is not an art.

….

Dear Love,

There is nothing about you that needs a canvas stretched across a gallery.
Nothing that should be painted blood red like an open wound, or ice blue like the arctic, or green like the forest– no, you are none of those things.
You, Love, are not an art.
You are not a thing to be put up on a wall and admired for a moment by hundreds, or even thousands of people, only to be forgotten later when there’s another big thing, or another big artist with their beautiful canvas.

You are not something that catches people’s fancy to be bought and hidden away in the private collection of a wealthy collector, that only to be loved once in a while and caged in a luxurious room surrounded by magnificence and wonder.
Moreover, especially not to be shrouded in darkness in that golden cage.
You are not that thing that has no freedom, no life, or no soul unless someone is looking at you and allow you to breathe in for a moment with their gaze alone.
You deserve more than a fleeting glance, a cursive look, or a critical gaze.

Has anyone every told you that some things are too beautiful to be art?
You, you are not art, because you are more than art.

You are too much, too real, and too alive to be an art.
Oh art cannot bleed the way you do.
And art does not look like the sunrise– the early mornings, the sunsets, the night sky, the stars, or even the silver moon.

You are nothing static.
You are a breathing reflection of everything the universe has to offer– a song sung into existence by so much more than inspiration.
Think of it as something like this: it took six million years of evolution to build you, to bring you to this moment– so much more than any artist could ever spare for even the greatest of their masterpieces.
You are a multitude of majestic feelings, every single one, once felt, never felt again in the same magnitude– You are the millions of things that happen to you in your lifetime.

And no piece of art can boast of those feelings, or experiences.

No. You are not art.
You are human.

And that means you are galaxies and universes – my galaxies and universe – more.
 

Love,
Yours.

V.A.C.W.

20-08-2016.

14:45

I sometimes ask myself, why am I writing?
Why do I create long posts, poems, using words?
Why did I fill my books with my writings?
And why so many of them aren’t posted here ?
I wrote something about the latter, yes.
But, the others?

..

She told me something few weeks ago about my writings.
She told me that my writings are filled with inspirations for her.
I was partly dumbfounded.
Dumbfounded by the fact that she actually read my writings.
And dumbfounded by the fact that I was able to touch her heart.

Let me tell you about why I write.

To express myself.
Yes, as some of you lot may know, I’ve done this since almost a year ago.
I’ve written things because there was something inside of me that I need to let out– that there were thoughts and feelings that need to be unleashed.
And I have done that – arguably – endlessly and flawlessly.
And hopefully (from what she said) my writings have spread love to her and to people that read my writings, and ultimately give her and anyone strength to go on, or simply just to put a smile on her face.
Just like I was touched, felt loved, picked up, and lightened up simply by someone else’s work that I’ve read everywhere.

Maybe for some people, reading these posts that I’ve posted– posts with ambiguous date title, without name, and without identity, feels like reading a piece of old paper stored in a drifting that smells of sand and sea.
Or maybe it feels like reading a forgotten diary with smudged letters and torn pages that is only discovered at some random, old, abandoned house.
I do not know what people might think about my writings.
Some of them did give their feedbacks, about how personal and soothing my writings are, about how raw, and how real the emotions inside them are.
It kind of struck me.
I didn’t think that people would react to my writings that way.
Maybe the reason why I was being completely and entirely honest was, and is, because I am writing this without any danger of being known to people.
I mean, they could know this blog and me, but they will never know who I am.
Moreover, they will never know who the hell she is.

I never wrote things that only stopped at the surface.
All the intense feelings that I have, I wrote all of them while holding them closely and tightly inside my heart– all of them.
The time where my heart was shattered to pieces, and I ran away somewhere that I didn’t even remember in the middle of the night just to hide from the world.
The nights where I stayed awake thinking about here at 3 am, left with the silence that emptied my soul when I looked around me and didn’t found a single trace of her.
From those times, I know that I need to pour out these feelings somewhere.
And so I’ve been doing– I’ve been real, and I’ve been writing.

But, come to think about it, it’s kind of strange.
She was the one that got hit very hard by what happened to her.
I mean, the aftermath of what happened to her affects me as well, of course.
But, I could arguably say that, one of the reasons I write things were because I want to prove something to myself, and to the world.
And if possible, if she reads all of these things, to her.

I wanted, and still want to prove to her and to myself that I’m worth to be trusted.

Honestly? The worst things that you can say to someone when you are dating is confessing to your partner that you have trust issues.
I know that some of you get what I am saying here.
She and I were basking in the thought and feeling of a beautiful relationship.
And suddenly, poof, there you go, both of us were ripped away with the reality– with the trust issues that she has because of what happened to her.
And, again, honestly? It was not fair– not at all.
Because I think that anything that happened outside the relationship should not hinder what is happening inside one, I would arguably say that it’s for another day.
All I really wanted to say to her was,
“I know that you can’t trust anybody right now, but you can trust me. Seriously.”

I told myself that she might just want to be assured that I could be trusted.
That she could safely trust me with all her heart.
Yet, for some reason, as I wrote before, she just wasn’t able to trust me.
I know for sure that if she let me in instead of locking her doors, I could show her how to trust someone again, but she kept blocking me out.
One of the hardest part of trying to assure her is the lack of communication.
She was trying to guard her heart, and so she blocked people out– even the people who care about her the most; let me tell you that it was and still is hard to be in this position, when all I want is for her to feel safe enough to trust me completely.
I would, and definitely could go above and beyond to show her how to trust again.

Yet, at the same time, it kind of hurts me a lot that even though I will do whatever it takes for her to feel safe trusting me, there’s a possibility that she’s just won’t take the risk of trusting me and just do (trust me) that.

One thing that I’ve learned from what happened to me and her is that, after all, if you don’t have trust, you just do NOT have anything.

Maybe one of the most difficult part of being me was that I have to pay for actions that weren’t my own– actions that weren’t caused by me at all.
Yes, she failed to realize that, just because one person, or some people betrayed her trust, doesn’t mean that everyone else – in this case, me – will do the same.
She treated me like she knew that I was going to betray her trust.
Or worse– as if I already had.

Bottom line is, I know that without trust, relationships will fail miserably.
I understand that it will hurt as bad as it did when her trust was betrayed, if she learned that someone she’s worked so hard to build trust with turned out that they actually can’t be trusted and all, or maybe they just don’t have any intentions in trusting her.
I know it’s bad, and I know that it is something that she cautioned herself with.
But, arguably, it’s worth working, and she should not use her trust issues as a warning, and as an excuse to NOT to overcome the problem in the first place.
It’s just, as much as they have hurt her and broke her trust,

I just want her to know that I am not them.

….

Dear Love,

I do not want to throw my words around like they do not mean a thing.
Believe me, I am trying to pour them out so they would mean a lot to you.
And, know that it’s not because it’s written– I do want my words to mean everything for you if I say them to you directly face to face.
I know that I am capable of – and should – taking responsibility for my own words.
And I know that I am always in the place to deliver promises my words entailed.

All this time, I’m trying to make sure that my feelings and my love for you will only add positivity to your life like the positivity they’ve added to mine.
And I do not, and will not ask anything in return.

Love, know that I still love you, and I still love you quietly.
Maybe there’s connection in loving you with trying to inspire people around me.
And by people around me, that includes you.
I never actually thought of trying to inspire people.
I was just honestly trying to indirectly assure you and myself that, after all that you’ve been through, I am worth to be trusted with all your heart and soul.

Other than that, I just want to be the place you come to, whenever.
I just want to be your strength when you simply can’t cope, when you come to me with the world on your shoulders– when your spine can’t carry the weight you hold.
I just want to be your hope, to be the one who doesn’t walk away when things get tough– to be the one who proves you that people can still win their wars.
I want to be the one who shows you that there are some people that will still stay during the dark times– that some people will still fight.

I want to be your light– I will love you in such a way that you will see gardens with me when all you could see at those times are cemeteries.

And all I could say right now, surrounded by this solitary moment that I’ve built for myself– the place where I love you madly and quietly,
Is that, I promise you that I will love you better and better every single day.

Love, do trust me that I will love you better,
And I will love you right.
 

Love,
Yours.

V.A.C.W.

 


 

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17-08-2016.

Someone said to me that drinking alone is pretty much miserable.
But I would have to disagree to that right now.
Because in this intoxicated state, I am feeling much happier than I usually am.
Yes, okay, the “me” inside might be miserable and all, I don’t know.
Maybe I’m feeling lighter and happier because of the alcohol.
Or maybe, maybe it’s just because the demons are finally out.
And they are circling atop my head like vultures.

Snarling, waiting patiently for the right time to go in for the kill.

….

I need no one.
I am happy, I am contented, and somewhat independent.
Believe me; well, even if you don’t, do you really have a reason not to?
I don’t know, she might not believe me and all.
But the thing is, we, all of us, are used to this modern world, filled with people that are strong and independent: I-don’t-need-anyone-to-be-happy kind of people.
At times – maybe this time – I could say that I always have somebody.
I have my families, friends, co-workers, and I have my love to give to her.
I do NOT even have to ask for love.

I don’t need it.

She might say that she does not need it too.

She and I, we shrug our shoulders like they bare no weight.
Both of us turn our faces like no one is worth remembering.
Both of us, walk away as though there is never a trace of our lingering glances through the crowded street and places we’ve been together.
As if the encounters we had were only dreams that we would never be able to recall, as if our hearts didn’t skip a single beat for the possibility of what could be.

Both of us burned the chemistry that, for one moment had felt like that was it.
She took a step back and refused me to break her walls.
Later not so long after that, I did the same thing.
I’ve built my walls, higher than ever.
Quickly both of us shut down, and no one is ever let in.
And I have done everything – every single thing to keep it that way.
I like how cool and chill people think I am right now.
I get off on the control I have over my emotions and feelings.

Until one day and for many days surrounding me, are the faces I do not feel a thing about, and the souls I just can’t touch.
I’m somewhat trapped between my shivering skin and the heated bodies that strangely feel so foreign on my own self.
I forced myself to go back into the void, but all I could find is her name inside of me I’ve been trying so hard to cover up.

And I failed.

I craved, and I ached for her.
Maybe I’m delusional, but I could feel, and hear things that related to her.
I could somewhat feel her reaching out to me, but never dare to say it out loud.
I could hear her cry, silently, behind the very happy smiles and the exuberant laughter that she have that could easily deceive anyone around her.
I could sense emptiness when her little feet navigate their way towards me.

Call me silly, or whatever it is that you want, but I know.
I know because she and I are no different.
She and I, are both the same people who speak the same emotional language.
Both of us are perhaps too proud to admit that we crave something from each other, and sometimes at night, all we ever want is a genuine smile from each other.
And maybe more than that.
Maybe we both need love from each other in our sobriety.
If, and only if she, and I, ever dare to whisper that word to each other.

Hah, what am I saying.

I’m sure as soon as the sun comes up later, and maybe, when she and I sleep long enough for this night to become a memory, both of us will forget about the things that I’ve written, and tell ourselves that we, were being mistaken.
Yes, we will feel embarrassed and hurriedly conceal it from anyone.
Just like me hiding this very blog from anyone– ANYONE, but her.
Both of us will act as if nothing has happened, and both of us will keep waiting to be blown away for the day all the fantasies we have for our future are finally fulfilled, and we meet our ideal self who definitely never has to ask for love.

We – both of us – sadly leave the time to pass us by.
We leave our vulnerable moments swept away by the current time into a long gone past, and stupidly join the force of the strong and independent who – they say – have it all together and so perfect.
We said to ourselves, we’re smart!
We said to ourselves, we’re capable to do things!
And we said to ourselves countless times that we will go on to do great things and our lives will seem perfect, and ONCE again we do not need anything at all.
Not even love.

But is that so? Will our lives ever be perfect it we keep doing it?

I say, when the night like this comes again, and alcohol once again gets into my system, or when her mind and my mind are cluttered with thoughts,
Thoughts that show no mercy to both of our fragile souls, that made us look around without our own-made glasses and we actually see no one but each other,
How are we going to hide from our demons?

Pray, how?

How is she and I going to pretend to each other?
How is she and I going to lie to each other– or most importantly, ourselves, again just to satisfy ourselves to be happy even if it lasts for just few hours?
How, is she and I going to hide ourselves?
How is she and I going to conceal our bodies and souls when suddenly the truths are stripped naked in front of each other– in front of our eyes,
And suddenly, she and I just got nothing, and even nowhere to hide?

Is she and I going to once again take pride as our shield and full-plated armor? Letting it get inside our head, and letting it fill its voice in our head, saying that we do not want to be vulnerable, and we do not want to look weak?

Are we going to put on pride as our brooch, and never accept that we still feel a LOT of things for each other– that we still feel the very same loving bloodlust?
Are we going to say not in a million years to that in our sobriety?
Maybe not in times like this, after three-quarter bottle of Vodka and she is the only person I could ever think of.
Maybe not in the day I blamed alcohol that made my feelings go out of my cage.
And absolutely not in the day I shed tears whenever I’m reminded of her.

Are we going to put on pride as our necklace, and will never have another start?
Is it because of pride, that we will never reach out to each other again?
Is it because of pride, that we will never say sorry to each other?
Or, the worst:

Is it because of pride, that we WON’T be truthful to each other’s heart ever again?

Are we going to keep our heads high and our hearts safe behind our walls?
Are we going to keep our feelings caged, and just looking at the screens in front of us, daily, that shields both of us from the reality of a possibility?
Is that how she and I will never ask each other? Because of pride?
Is it because of pride, that she and I will never catch each other’s eyes again to read the words that were never spoken or written?
Is it because of pride, that she and I will never find out other secrets that we were so eager to give to each other but eventually become hidden away like this?

Is it because of pride, that she and I, will turn our heads away from something that is tying our paths together? Something that filled with honesty, bravery? Something that is just so real, and amazing?

Isn’t this so fucking stupid?
She and I are adults, yet we, are still so stupid.

And, once more, because of both of our prides, or maybe because of fear, we will NOT even want to admit that we are actually being so goddamn stupid.
Maybe not in sobriety later.
But, right now, I am going to admit that I am stupid, yes I am.
Both of us know about each other very closely.
Both of us are actually still living, breathing.
Both of us are still thinking, and still bleeding.

My plates– my armor and shields, are scattered around me right now.
I hate sobriety at this hour, I hate how I cage my feelings when I’m sober– at how I ignore my heart that’s screaming my love for her.
I hate how pride is taking control on both me and her.
I hate how we conceal our truths and hide ourselves behind our walls.
I hate how we pretend that we think that everything is fine and all.
I hate how both of us raise our chins, turn our heads, and stubbornly refuse to be the first to say anything while expecting to go miles to chase each other.

I hate pride, I hate sobriety, I hate levelheadedness.
I hate how both of us – even people – pretend to ourselves almost all the time.
And most importantly, I hate how she perfectly veils herself behind her mask.

I just hate how she could wipe away her tears and put on her favourite mask,
but, deep inside, I could still taste loneliness drying on her cheekbones.

And it’s bitter as hell– even way more than the hell itself.

……
…..
….

God, I need to sleep.

 
 

V.A.C.W.
04:18

 

15-08-2016.

 

An “I love you” Is only as powerful
As the actions that back up the phrase.

I’m not merely telling her that I love her,
I’m making her believe in it.
For loving her means seeing all of her magic,
And reminding her of it when she has forgotten.

And right now, I got all the magic that I need:

Words.

For they mean more than what is set down on paper.
It takes true love to infuse them deeply
With shades of deeper meaning–
With every alphabet, every word, every sentence,
Written for her in wonder of her being.

For her smile and laughter are questions
I wanted to spend my whole life answering.

 

21:03

 

14-08-2016.

09:59

I have this one particular co-worker.

We sometimes meet at the pantry, and usually talk while having our lunch.
But there’s one reason why I said that she’s a particular co-worker.
It’s because she always says sorry whenever she could.
And it was not because she said something wrong, I never actually feel offended or confused on what she said, they were all just small talks, really.
But, if I may say, it’s just because she’s afraid of people NOT accepting what she actually said to them– that she’s afraid of saying something wrong.
Sure, you could say that she’s just being polite and all.
Well, I beg to differ.

….

I hate kids– somewhat generally; why, you ask?
Well, when kids are cute, they could be sooo goddamn cute.
But when they are annoying – which I think they usually are most of the time – it feels like they are spawned from the 10th hell itself.
But, here’s the thing about kids that I’ve realized:
They aren’t afraid to say what they have in their minds.
Unlike us adults, they do not afraid to say stupid things.
And they do not have their prejudice to people like us adults do.
And, well, they won’t say sorry after everytime they said something.

People said, growing up could be described in triangle– bottom-up.
Means that, if the bottom side of the triangle is you when you were young, and the top side is you at 500 years old (which is impossible), your point of view and some of your thoughts are getting narrower.
Imagine a triangle.
When you were young, you could imagine things, it was as if everything is possible.
But as you grow older, and older, your point of view will get narrower, because you understand that there will be some impossible things, and there will be some definite things that you learned from your past.
That, is what shaped your reality.
That, is why people’s reality are different.
And that, is why you need to keep an open mind at all times.
Sometimes, there are some things that made our triangle went narrower that it should be, that made it bent, weird-shaped, unlike the normal triangle.

Those things are called Trauma.

18 years ago, I was talking and playing around with my sister.
We were playing in back porch of our home.
It was raining, and I saw a leak in the ceiling.
My sister went in to call my dad, and I was just standing there, staring at the water dripping down from the leak at that one point in the ceiling.
The drip went faster and faster, like opening a water tap.
And the ceiling broke because it wasn’t able to handle the water pressure.
Where was I? Right beneath the broken ceiling.
The water washed over me, and I was tremendously shocked, by the sudden rush of water, and, well, I was obviously crying from what happened to me.
My dad and sister went out only to find me sitting at the porch floor, crying.

That small incident left some light trauma in me.
I was afraid the sound and the sight of running water.
I was afraid to take a shower, to open a faucet, to see rivers, to hear dripping voices, to hear the sound of running water, almost everything that relates to water; and at those times, I even stopped taking shower and took bath daily.
The thing went on for almost two years before I could finally brave myself to take a shower and even getting to the beach with my family and friends.
And if I may say, maybe that’s the reason why I can’t swim until today.
Yes, I know that I could learn, and maybe I should later.

The thing is, maybe that’s why my co-worker was being like that.
There might be something in my co-worker’s past that made her like that.
That made her afraid to offend people even though she didn’t even offend anyone.
I don’t know, maybe some people abruptly shot their anger at my co-worker and said that all that my co-worker has said to them was stupidly stupid?

Speaking of trauma, I remember Her.
Well, she has a lot of things going on in her past.
From being bullied, being abused by her ex, family matters, fake friends, being betrayed, depression, slight Cherophobia, and a lot of other things.
Let me tell you that she has lived through her trauma.

She has lived through situations where her body, mind, and self was not her own.
I believe she felt disjointed, ripped from her ownself, her safety and sanity.
There were moments, or experiences, where her trust was smashed, and where she felt like her worth was gone, and all there was, was pain.
She was pushed into the deep end of the pool when she didn’t know how to swim.
But she somehow found her way to the ledge anyway.
She walked through a forest fire and didn’t succumb to the smoke, but she dealt with the burns and made it out in spite of the flames around her.
I remember her calling me when she was afraid of fireworks years ago, and I remember her when she was being depressed and wanted to cut herself where I deliberately said that she should not do it.
Yet she found herself in free fall, but refused to break upon impact.
She survived; she did.

But the thing about trauma, is that even when it’s over it never really goes away.
And sometimes, sometimes trauma is just so loud.
Sometimes trauma is the monster banging at the windows of her room, and screaming gutturally and demonically inside of her nightmares.
Trauma is the nails on a chalkboard, and an earthquake that rattles her floors.
It smashes everything in its wake and forces.
And it demands that she acknowledge its horrible, horrible presence.
It made her left with no choice but to sit with her hands clapper over her ears, making sounds that are barely human because she just wants everything to stop.
And it won’t.

Other times, trauma is quiet– it is sneaky.
It is the feeling that she is being watched.
Or the feeling that she is walking down the street with the word “victim” being painted on her forehead in purple, and everyone is privy to her secrets.
It is the disturbing fear that if she goes to sleep, her dream will be anything but restful, I even remember she said that she was even afraid to go to sleep.
It is the little whisper that says, “you will never be whole again.” that itches its way into the back of her mind and repeats over, and over, and over again.
And no one could see it, I even barely could.
Because she convinces herself that she is the only one who knows that it is there.

Maybe it is the feeling that she felt like a million piece of puzzle of black, and grey, filled with mess, with everyone staring at those pieces while realizing that putting her back together as one is just simply not worth the goddamn effort.

I know that I love her.
And it means that I love a girl who’s gone through trauma.

Let me tell you that I see the worth in helping her bandage her wounds.
I see the worth in her that someone else tried to bury.
No, I am not afraid of the bad days that she has and will have.
I will make her see the beauty in the good days.
I know that a lot of things will scare me.
I am afraid of heights, I was afraid of running water, and other things.
But let me tell you that trauma is not one of them.

Because when you love a girl who’s battled trauma, you’re really saying:
“Love, let me help you heal, because I believe you can.”

If you ask me, what does it like loving her?
Loving a girl like her, who has managed to make it to the other side of a traumatic experience is like.. Deciding to restore a house that has been abandoned for years.
For she has the framework, and the good bones, but I may need to mend the holes someone else left behind on the walls in the entire house.
She has the makings for beautiful and light-filled windows, but I will need to replace few cracked panes around the house with new glass.
She has the door frame, she just needs a door.
Yes, she’ll make a lovely home– oh she already is.
But I won’t deny that the house would need some care in order to make a beautiful and comfortable space where both of us – me and her – can fit inside the house.

Let me tell you that loving a girl like her with such past in her history is NOT some choose-your-own-adventure, or some level in a silly game that I need to beat.
I know that it takes time and patience.
I know that it is NOT something that I win at.
I know that it is something I deal with day by day.
And I know that it takes a level of commitment.
Because on some days, loving her could be so complicated.
Oh, she is inherently complicated.
She is stained with memories she wishes she did NOT have.
But at the same time, memories that she will never be rid of.
She’s pieced together, and the stitching may be tighter in some spots than others.
And I know that I have to be careful not to unravel her with one careless tug.

But if there’s anything that I knew since years ago,
Is that she is brave, and she is strong.

I hope that she will realize that I chose to love her since years ago.
And definitely NOT to hurt her.
I know that she is able to love with the same kind of tenacity as I have for her– the same kind of tenacity that it took to walk through fire.

I want her to hold out her palm and show me all the burn marks that she have.
And I don’t want her to apologize with her appearance–
I don’t want her to apologize with all that happened to her.

I just want her to trust me and hold my hand and have faith in me– to trust me that I will love her without trying to change anything that she has.

Because I do, love her, with all that she is,
With all that she has been, and all that she is yet to be.

……

Dear Love,

I never once loathe you because of what happened to you.
I’ve known you since years and years ago, and I know what you have been through.
And I smile, I always smile looking at you.
I smile looking at your creases and cracks, for the beauty of morality burns within you– a beauty that is not born along with you into this world.
But it is rather a beauty that is suffered for– earned and become.
The beauty of a heart and soul, so deeply scarred by compassion,
That all else in this world becomes insignificant by its comparison.

Love, the purpose of this life is not to endure it.
But also to soar, stumble, and flourish.
And you, even though you still got a long way to go, did all of those.
Many people are only doing things that they told to do, and not doing things that they actually want to do– they need to fall in love with their existence.
We were born to live, and not merely exist.
That is why, I always think that confining your heart and taming your spirit would be a fate far worse than death for you.

For it would be the ruin of everything that makes you so unique and precious.

So I’m gonna love you, but not keeping you in a cage.
Love, my love for you never was, never is, and never will be a cage for you.
I need you to know that it is just the same as your freedom.
For I just want you to be truly beautiful in your own right.

Know that I love you just the way you are,
As flawed and tattered as you might be, as unattractive and uneasy as you sometimes feel, and as unaccomplished as you think you are.
To believe that you must hide all the parts of you that are broken, out of fear that I’m incapable of loving what is less than perfect,
Is just the same as believing that sunlight is incapable of entering a broken window and illuminating a dark room completely.

Our body is merely a vessel, and our face, a distraction– superficial facades.
Know that I dare to love you beyond your flesh and beneath your bones, to love you in all your twisted glory, and be madly in love at what I find hidden within you.

For, Love, you bloom even when darkness engulfs you completely.

And nothing could dim the light that shines within you.
 

Love,
Yours.

V.A.C.W.

 


 

236acd0270cc6f314fcd3c6a87abeb09

12-08-2016.

 

She was born with her eyes wide open–
With passion and kindness.
She found beauty in everything that she saw.
Every person she met, she noticed the dimples in their smile,
And the creases in their eyes.

As fragile as the petals of a flower,
She was gorgeous, and radiant,
Standing in the sun with her arms wide open.

I always knew that her love was from different age,
And that she, and I, would always love deep to the core;
That in this lifetime, she and I would lose and find our souls,
Time, and time again.

Right now, she might live in a world without maps,
With only words to give her direction and sense of reason.
A world far from absoluteness and sensibility,
Where she found beauty in silence,
Just like the quiet pause between two pages in a book.

A world where she allowed herself to be disassembled, and left hollow.
With only the dawn of a new day to bring with it the hopeful promise,
That she, would be reborn once again.

Because we – both of us – survived together.
Two flowers in a hurricane, Seeking beauty in one another.

And she, will be given another chance
To taste our love and all its riches–
To let it swim through her veins,
Like a steady flowing river,
Carrying her out into a wide open ocean.

Where she would lay beneath the stars–
Beneath the veil of the galaxy,
Our souls, unite, together,

Forever deep,
Forever whole,
Forever lost.

Forever found in love.