I was never a fan of flowers.
To wake up every morning with the sun directly hitting my face—the only thing that can give me warmth after a long night; to step outside the house just to be greeted by a majestic garden of beautifully-grown flowers—these were never really my thing. Hundreds and even thousands of years have proven the huge role of flowers in expressing innermost emotions that can only be explained beyond words like three red roses saying I love you…but when it dies, it just dies. Every flower will always come to a state of oblivion and as they are being used in recognition of our feelings, I seem to live like it’s nothing but a way to say that the way this magical moment tickles even the tiniest part of our heart and the way lovers danced gracefully under the moonlight will be forgotten in just a snap.
I never was a fan of flowers being plucked from the ground just to be forgotten. Its scent is a tingling sensation that causes an endless hypnosis and these wonderful feelings will surely come to an end—leaving you with no trace.
Once a flower dies, it just dies. No longing, no sweet goodbyes, just oblivion—and I don’t want to live just to be forgotten by the people who plucked me out of my comfort zone. I don’t want to be a flower who just dies when it dies.
I long for you.
In every second that pass, even just for a split moment, your smiles keep on playing like flashbacks in my mind. The way you pulled me in for a hug and the way you knew I wasn’t okay were the things that kept me going—and losing you meant losing myself too. If only letters could be sent to heaven, I would gladly send you tons even if you don’t respond. I feel like I can be assured that somehow, you’re still there listening to my empty screams and my endless rants about how I spent my day by just lying in bed, reading books, clicking my phone and being lazy.
I wanted to know if you still got that gap on your teeth and maybe if photographs exist there, you can take a picture of yourself while smiling then send it to me and I’ll look at it everytime grandma scolds the family and pretend I am laughing with you even if it’s just some distant memory. If I can send letters in heaven, maybe I can fill them with tears as I write and by then, I’ll once again feel the warmth of your thumb wiping every trace of those crystal clear tears on my face. I still miss you. I can’t send you this but if possible, read it. You don’t have to send one back because what I loved about you was your silence—showing your willingness to just listen. I am a very stubborn person. You know that even if I can’t send letters to heaven, I’ll still write them anyway and they will forever be engraved in my heart—in that way, you can hear my heartbeat voicing out what I’ve written, because even if letters can’t be sent to heaven, I know my heart screams loud enough to reach you.
She was so beautiful.
So beautiful to the point that her beauty became invisible to the naked eye. So beautiful, like the darkness. Her smiles were the brightest; her eyes were always twinkling like the luminous stars; her laughter seemed to be a melody to everybody’s ears, it has such wonderful rhythms. Same goes with her heart—it can produce wonderful rhythms too, staying unheard. It’s like a musicbox, that wasn’t opened. A rusty little musicbox hidden in a dusty attic, which is herself. Inside that musicbox, was a girl—a pretty little girl, who never even had a chance to reveal herself to the world. A ballerina. What does a ballerina do? Of course she dances, gracefully throughout the crowd—she stretches her body; smiles; and expresses each song through her body movements. But she’s different. This little ballerina inside this rusty musicbox never danced. She never had the chance to dance, she never had the chance to express, for she stayed hidden. The difference between this rusty musicbox and the normal ones is that, this one bleeds, and it has small cracks around it, and everytime it bleeds, the cracks become wider. So she covers it up with tapes. But then, these tapes were never enough conceal these cracks, these tapes were never enough to prevent this musicbox from breaking. Then finally, it broke. After covering it up, it still broke. She’s finally free. By then, she started expressing herself, she started dancing, with glistening tears in her heart. She finally broke out of the musicbox.
My mind is not an open book.
It’s not an audio that blurts out what it’s supposed to say. It’s twisted and loud and you can only hear it once you start reading it. People always see me with the surface as the basis leaving them curious about who I really am though they never really tried figuring me out. My mind is a book consisting of millions of words that weren’t able to escape. It gets loud sometimes, other times it’s just a blank page, something that’ll separate the ending of the last chapter and the beginning of another one. Oddity always existed in every paragraph. It gets really confusing most of the time and if you want a journey inside my mind, you would need a map of my thoughts so that you’ll never get lost. There are pages you’d rather skip or tear apart because it gets really difficult to understand and there are ones that’ll make you want to stay and never flip the page ever again because the words are too soft that even your heart melted, but most of the times, there are a lot of pages that’ll make you want to stop reading for it’ll make you feel terrified to continue because my mind is a book filled with caged monsters. I’ve thought of leaving my own thoughts once but I’ve decided not to.
My mind is not an open book, you’ll never know what’s inside it just by looking at the surface because even the cover doesn’t state its title. It will never catch your interest at first sight and I can’t assure you that it will along the run but please, don’t flip my pages if you just tend to tear it apart.