Could you be more of the person you wanted you to be, I wonder how things would’ve turned out. To be able to laugh like the others, to be able to love because you know how to and you are not afraid, to be able to show the world what you can do; I wonder if you’d be genuinely happy. Living now felt like nothing have really made you feel like you are. The world keeps on turning, the clock keeps on ticking, and the people just keeps on living their own lives while here you are, living your death. You’ve been trying to claim your happiness for your desires, I just hope someday it’ll be your desire. It’s like a requirement for you to reach a certain step even if it’s just an inch from where you came from.
Whatever it takes, however it affects you, you just live up to everybody’s expectations and that had been the death of you. Once you’ve reached the ending, I hope you find a new beginning to live your life according to how you want to live it even with eyes closed and inability to hear. I just hope you make your heartbeats as your stepping stones from that day forward. Always remember that you have your own voice and you have your own decisions. Stop using them in telling yourself to be something you are not.

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.