Writing Resolution

Because pain isn’t supposed to be just pain. It has to be something more than that.

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December 16, 2016 · 4:03pm

I write.

Because if I don’t write, then what would be the point of pain? I feel like life was giving me some kind of poetry… and it is my duty to unveil it. And I don’t mean to share it; most of the time… I want to keep it only to myself. But then sometimes, it also feels like… I’m keeping something that wasn’t truly meant to be kept unknown; and unheard of… But to be discovered, and unbosom… to touch others; to help reach others by words,– if not by hand. It was made to conform. I feel as if… there is some secret message behind it, — a silver lining, after all. To make them feel that they aren’t completely alone. To make them realize that… there is someone, somewhere out there, who also feels the same way. That they have someone they can relate to… Somebody they can understand themselves with. To let them feel something. Not just to let them merely read the words. Because poetry is an art; and art, certainly, always supposed to mean something. Or even something else, and something more than what you can see. It isn’t just a prosaic combination of words, that were put aligned together… with a mere rhyming sound of each syllables. No, it’s got to be something more than that, and we have to get a little deeper to get there. And most likely, that’s when we go Anon. To give them the message without risking revealing your demure self that lives inside you. The one who does not have the courage to stand up and speak. But the words are there. As well as the paper; and the pen. Words that even though shallow; and even though simple… still have made you feel something, or that it had meant something. No matter how inferior, and defeated it may appeal… Or how mediocre it may seem, than intended to be… or is supposed to be. At least, it became something. It is something. Something that’s worldly; something like epiphany… 

Because pain isn’t supposed to be just pain. It has to be something more than that.

The Light Within

It’s not about the absence of light; or the darkness anymore… Sometimes, it’s all about the capacity of your own will to see the light that’s not even there at all.

January 28, 2017 • 10:44am

It’s not about the absence of light; or the darkness anymore… Sometimes, it’s all about the capacity of your own will to see the light that’s not even there at all. Not the ability nor capability to witness. But your own willingness to do so. Your willingness to see. Your mere decision to be provided. To see what’s invisible to the naked eye; and what’s beyond the reach of your eyesight. It is seen only by your own will; or rather, felt. That only light that’s always been inside of you.

In the end… it becomes our own decision to see. It becomes about our will to go past the darkness… or even beyond our dimmed vision.

Emptiness, I guess…

We let go when we couldn’t take it anymore. We surrender to life; surrender to our own questions… issues, and doubts… We give in to life itself.

January 27, 2017 · 1:58am

Sometimes we seemed okay… and we look fine. And everything seems to be just fine…

Until at some point, something hits you and you feel incomplete. You don’t feel whole at all. It’s just that… you’re suddenly feeling empty, and it surely felt like something was missing. Something went missing. It’s so strange; everything doesn’t seem to feel the same anymore. It’s like something’s not right; something was gone. Like… there’s something wrong.

We learn to live a life full of changes. No, I mean… we learn to live and understand that everything change.– and that includes our Life.

We are left on our own. With so many questions that’s ever more baffling than before. We usually pass up, without even understanding a thing… and then eventually give up. We let go when we couldn’t take it anymore. We surrender to life… surrender to our own questions; surrender to all the issues, and doubts. We give in. We… inevitably let it all go for sure. Let it go when we couldn’t grasp our own reality anymore. When we couldn’t hold onto our dreams any longer because it just seems so… unreal. –Ideal. We let go when we can no longer make ourselves believe. Our dreams were perfect, but we’re not. We, by all means, learn that maybe dreaming was just for kids. Oh, the perks of growing up. Or, should I say “downside”?

We are waiting for the answers that will never come.

We continue to seek… and try to find these answers we badly needed to know. And then we consistently ask questions, after questions… That leads into yet another question we could never ever get an answers for. Not even a single one. And frustrating enough, we just can’t stop questioning everything. But answers don’t seem to come easily… while questions were pouring profusely down on us like a fire bullets. It doesn’t seemed to have a sort of cessation.

It’s just that, not everything is all about the answers. But answer is something that counts. It’s something that we need. It’s the only thing that will make our sense to the world. Or, the only thing that would make sense to us in this world. We need answers just as much as we need to live, and breathe. It is something that gives sense to us; it is something that gives us meaning. But it seems to me that… questions were more likely to be served upon us than it is the other way ’round…

Until we eventually doubt everything. We could no longer believe at anything anymore. Because we can’t forever hold onto questions; we can’t trust every sign. We need something more substantial. We need something… real. Something genuine. We need some proof.

But it’s as if life really gives you a proof.

We hadn’t even been given any reason. Not choices anyway. Hell, we hardly even had a little clue. But we cannot hold onto something that’s fleeting… We wanted certainty. But the world has no guarantee if…– everything about it is.. passing through. We cannot ask for it to give us a steadfast life; and a certain reason, when all it knows was changes…

We cannot demand such delusional mirage from something cryptic like Life.

And then we drift, and we roll… and tried everything we could just to get that only one answer we constantly long for. And yet, all we found was nothing. There is nothing. But why the hell does it still have to feel like there has to be something? That there is always something. Something between the lines… There’s something that we can find from behind the walls… from behind the bars… from behind the ruins… from behind the iron gates. From beyond our very own walls.

Because we always feel like there’s something. That there must be something. There is something here for us… Something we can find.. Something we can have… Even something we can own, eventually. There’s always this something…-an urge. An urge to know… The urge to believe. The urge to hope for more… for something. Something that we could never even figure out. And then we end up longing. Longing for something we do not even know… Something we’ve never had. Something we cannot have.

From behind, and beyond the unknown.

Why the hell does it have to feel like there is something to be found behind the unknown?– If you just gotta believe, and be courageous enough to go through it… Or to be eager enough; and be determined enough to want to know. To learn… That’s what I don’t understand about the human life. I don’t understand why everything has to appear so simple, when everything was nothing but complicated. Why does it have to look, and to sound so easy and simple?  Why does it have to pretend to be something it’s not? Why does it even have to fool us? Or, — is it really worth it?

It’ll make you feel like you have to be brave, and face everything… because there is something so precious that’s waiting for you on the other side. Just go, do it. Have courage and do something because life will surely guaranty you for it; for your act of bravery. Like it’ll reward you for striving really hard.

And then we, fool people that we are, of course follow the path. And in the end, there is nothing. It made us feel like there is something waiting for us at the end of the line… and then we held onto it. And we strongly believed that there has to be… there has something in there. That it was true,–there really is something, after all. Something so real… something so marvelous. Something brilliant. And then we get there, and there was nothing. It’s empty. Until we find ourselves on the very same void that we had created, and imagined… Quite similar to the only thing that we found. Empty.

We continue being victimized by our own life. We continue gathering the answers… that we never got. I guess there really is just one certain answer, after all.

Emptiness.

I Was Here

And this is my predicament. I am inadequate, and I have a heart that never wants to stop…. I was lost; but I was here.

December 3, 2016 • 9:37pm

But I was inadequate. 

Incomplete. Shattered, even. There’s not just some missing part of me that’s needed to be fixed. Which I have to find and search for; to look around, grope the floor… and reach for it. I’m freaking broken and ruined. I am a mere remains of fragments, and remnants…and every shredded parts of me, that had been torn away from my old self, due to my palpable disintegration. Of my falling apart; of my collapsing… If I didn’t know better I’d think, and I’d say, I was gone. Already gone. Completely gone. Absolutely gone.

But I was here.

And living only with the tiny bits that was left of me with some strings, trying to hold it back together… And with the merely light beating of a heart that has been ripped out; stomped on, and put back again. A heart that has been exhausted, drained, used up… and all the other synonymous of being empty there is. A heart that never stops pumping; even when it’s bruised, wounded, and scarred. Even when there are still some remaining scraps of debris from the aftermath of the catastrophe… still settling on its every frail parts. Even when the thorn lingers. Even after the blood had ran wild from the cuts; flowed out on the skin… Even after the blood has dried up and the scabs had wear off. It’s still there. Gasping for air; panting for oxygen.

It stayed there. Even after everything. Even after the final blow, and the obliteration took place. It’s still there, even when the incessant chaos went downhill. It’s still there, even when the mind always tried to stop and end its beating. It stays there, even when the sanity is fiddling away… and the mind is lost. It stays still, even when the mind had disappeared; and totally gone. It beats still even when the hopes are dead; and life had stopped. It remains still, even when the existence is overpowered by madness… and all is invaded by numbness.

Oh, God. It’s unstoppable.

It doesn’t care whether I already want it to stop and get some rest. It keeps beating, and beating…and beating. And the mere sound of it is perhaps what irks me the most, I suppose. It sounded too little, and yet had the greatest impact even against the chaotic sound of my mind. That no matter how much I listen and agree to my very own mind, it just keeps surfacing no matter what. It persists. It beats still. It beats. Beats everything.

And this is my predicament. I had a docile mind that’s willing to give in anytime I want. A chaotic mind that was always so lost, but still a smart companion. And I had this heart that breathes for survival. No matter what…

A heart that never leaves me even when my mind often does.

I was inadequate and I have lost all the hope to be ever become complete again. I’ve lost it all… –the hope, the chance, that I would perhaps feel whole again someday…

I want for this maladay to stop; I want this dearth to end… But I can never stop this thing in my chest that pumps blood on veins that carries oxygen. An absolute danger; my greatest foe.

That’s the thing about me. I am inadequate, and I have a heart that never wants to stop.

I was lost; and I was here.

Promise of Forever

We often tend to suffer from our own little delusion that forever really does exist in this ever-changing world. Where nothing is certain… But please, forever is a myth; not a commodity.

November 30, 2016 · 6:18pm

We often tend to suffer from our own little delusion that forever really does exist in this ever-changing world. Where nothing is certain; and where everything seems fleeting… that even our own breathes are temporary. If only we spend much time, and effort, and work hard to achieve it.

But please, forever is a myth; not a commodity.

Nydel M.

Indifference and Madness

They say that we have our own volition… but I could not believe them; I do not choose to think, but I cannot escape these thoughts.

November 28, 2016 · 10:16pm

I have this thing in mind… a very chaotic notion; perhaps some kind of oppression… that had been going on in my mind lately. Or shall I say, — every now and then. And it’d since then been aggravating me a lot, but I couldn’t quite figure out what it is; nor what to do about it. 

My thoughts are a mess. And I am a disaster. I subconsciously do things I know I wouldn’t really do on purpose. They say that we have our own volition… but I could not believe them; I do not choose to think, but I cannot escape these thoughts. I had given up hope on everything; I couldn’t care less whatever happens. I do not care about anything. At all. I could probably go past these torment and out of such predicament without shedding a tear from the eye; without even a single cringe. I wasn’t stranger to pain, but I wasn’t numb, either. Or so I thought; because I know I shouldn’t. I am indifferent and I wasn’t supposed to be. I am human and was supposed to feel. Because if I don’t, what would be the point of being alive, then? 

But still, I could screw the world over, and shut people out without looking back and feeling a thing. Not even a guilt. I felt nothing. But… how come? I want nothing, feel nothing. I am nothing. How could I? I am dangerously empty. Hollow, even. I am the void that wraps up my very own.

Perhaps this was indifference.

Maybe I was only stoic because I am no stranger to all this; it’s not at all new to me. It couldn’t surprise me more… I’m so used to all these. –so sick and fed up. I’ve grown jaded enough already to still give a damn. These no longer bother me,– in any way. Not even a little. I can never be more affected; let alone upset. That despite all the unpredictability of life… I still know what’s going to happen in the end. It always goes down to one thing. That exact same thing.

And I still do not know… whatever was the causation of these improbable shambles of my own thoughts… Or whether it was only a state of happenstance; a chance. But knowing so would never really do, either. And knowing would be the end of me. Half the time… I was usually presented by the answers I do not want to know; the truths I do not seek. And maybe that’s the reason why I’m such a mess. I’m constantly being trapped in my very own chaotic thoughts like I always did.

But I cannot understand if this was just me, merely jaded. Or I, in the face of indifference. But I am both; the life proved me so. And it remains indefinite whether or not I just really know life well enough, and accepted that everything is passing through. That we are all just passing through… Or maybe things just stopped mattering so much. Because it turned out to be the norm, and nothing matters anymore…

And I’ve settled in my own chasm; and have forgotten how to live… Because doing so would never really make any difference. I was absolutely jaded to the point that I couldn’t even recognize my very own existence and what would I ever live for. 

There is nothing. There is nothing here for me. I merely exist… that is all; nothing more. And perhaps, saying so would give life a reason to get me back my sanity. A little mercy, maybe? But no, not really. Being obliterated was no reason to take away this existential madness. –The life might say.

Right Time

We shall meet again, some time. When the wounds are healed; and when the smiles are real. And maybe when life is a little bit of kinder, and nothing is torn…

November 15, 2016 · 11:44pm

and might I say,

“We shall meet again, some time. When the wounds are healed; and when the smiles are real. And maybe when life is a little bit of kinder, and nothing is torn… Perhaps we shall meet when the sky’s whole again.”

We shall meet, when the time is right again.

Nydel M.