There isn’t a whiskey that became what it is without the barrel that incased it for years.
There isn’t a bird who appreciated freedom without the cage that imprisoned it for months.
There isn’t a book that can to be without the years it spent trapped in a writer’s mind.
I couldn’t help hear the cracking of the thin ice beneath me, as I shift my weight from left to right, I could feel it shuddering underneath me, waiting and waiting for the right moment…
I am preyed on by my own demons, I need to learn to control my emotions, he says.
How do I learn to put a halter on my demon colt? How do I put on my saddle for my emotions? How do you tame the intangible?
I had so many questions, but most importantly I have so many feelings. Gushing like an open wound, like gashes in my brain where the feelings just overflow and drown out everything else, covering and covering all sensibility and senses. The anger, the hurt, the pain, the sadness overwhelms me and overrides my systems, I can feel my heart panging in my chest, I can feel it thumping irrevocably hard, as if it is about to burst? Do you know how I feel? Do you know what I mean?
Crashing waves in all pandemonium, the creaking of the boards on the big ship told me that they were going down with this storm.
“Overhaul!” shouted the captain, waving his arms in the air, trying to make sense of the storm, commanding his subservients to throw the things overboard. But amidst this chaos, who was going to be able to hear him? Everyone was scrambling, running in different directions as the boat tilted left and right and left again. The creaking grew louder and louder, the rolling objects fell overboard piece by piece.
I scooped the water from the hull under the deck as quick as I can, but it was no help at all. How to you save a ship ready to wreck at any moment?
I like it, when he ruffles his hair in the morning, eyes sleepy.
I like it, when he holds up his shirts and compares them, although to be honest they all look a bit crumpled.
I like it, when he forgets to put on his underwear.
I like it, when he realises this in dismay and pulls his shirt off again.
I like it, when he struggles to tuck his shirt in his pants, trying to look tidy.
I like it, when he looks in the mirror and checks his reflection.
I like it, when he rummages through the drawer to find his other sock.
I like it, when he pulls my shirt back down over my tummy, and wraps me back up in my blanket.
I like it, when he kisses my forehead and makes me feel happy and safe.
I like it, when he laughs at my jokes and rates them, I got at most only a 5 yesterday. (and the full scale is 10)
I wonder if he’ll tell me that he loves me.
I wonder if he’ll promise me to wear more clothes, like I promised him I would.
I wonder if I’m anything to him, than a toy at the spur of the moment.
I wonder if someday I will have the courage to tell him everything.
I wonder if he’ll tell me I’m his everything.
Credits to 8bird “Morning Sun”
Morning sun lit up the room, through the slits of the window curtains, I saw rays of light shine and brighten the world.
You shifted over, eyes still closed, crushing me with a hug till I couldn’t keep the air in my lungs. You take away my breathe.
I couldn’t help hold my breath, I knew it. What you’re about to say next would probably kill me.
It wasn’t like the crying you would see in the movies, where the drama queen drops down on the floor and the images turn black and white, thundering ad tumbling tears pour down her agonised face and she shakes her perfect hair and shouts into the sky — No, it isn’t like that. It was more, it was so much more.
It was trying to breath under water, struggling to survive the crashing waves and inhale the terrible oxygen, waving your arms and legs, flailing and kicking to head towards the surface. Seeing the bubbles leave your nostrils and your mouth while you start to choke, it is that sort of feeling.
It was like the quiet room filling with a suffocating silence, like a silent killer driving a knife through your body, right between your lungs. It was a slow, sharp knife, pricking through the skin and then nudging between the muscles, tearing up the flesh the razor comes in contact with. Breathing in that moment you feel a great pain, right in the middle of your chest, it is that sort of feeling.
It was like lying in the snow naked, cold bites from the snowflakes that land on your skin, like a slowly creeping cold vine, sapping away your life. But you’re trying to make a snow angel and your skin scrapes against the hard snow, redness spreads from the surface to deeper tissue. Exhaling you feel more heat leaving you, a sinking, it is that sort of feeling.
“What do you see in me?” she asked, taking in the scenery and avoiding my gaze. The grass seemed almost dead or dying anyways, a barren land filled with dry soil and unimportant litter.
Lighting up my cigarette I took a deep breathe. The clicking of a lighter shook the land, fear quivered from the brittle bits of leaves and sticks.
“Why ask? There are too many answers to this question you ask,” I answered, not wanting to ponder on the subject. “What do you see in this piece of land?”
She hesitated, trying digest and understand what my question meant: were there any deeper meanings? Was I trying to say something?
“Well… It’s a dead plain, for now. It’ll grow again someday, but I don’t know when, nor do I know if anything else will have to happen before it becomes green and luscious again.”
I dropped my lit cigarette onto the dry inferno.
White, bright moon hanging in the sky and all I could think of was that moment when our noses brushed. How pathetic to be looking upon that orb that shines with such dark thoughts.
I have never felt so lonely, is it how the moon feels too? To be constantly alone, reflecting upon the superior, remembered for being a piece of rock that light from the sun bounced off from. They said this year’s moon was one of the biggest I would see, and indeed it magnified the hollowness and that pang of loneliness hit me.
Werewolves howled for their loneliness too, once in a full moon, because they are misunderstood, and a mistake in the existence of their beings. The moon laments with them, for choosing the wrong way to orbit, the forget that it once was somewhere else roaming for a purpose in existing.
“So this will be a short interview, and just try to answer as succinctly as possible. Ok?” Looking down, she scribble my name on a piece of paper, lines underneath prepare to be written on.
“Ok.”
“What do you think of when I say ‘Yellow’?”
“Happiness.”
“How about ‘Sleep’?”
“Full moons.”
“Full moons? That’s interesting, and honestly baffling. Okay, alright. ‘Eyes’?” she asked, busily writing and writing and writing.
“Sea, as in the ocean kind of sea.” I said, clearing my throat to not sound like a croaking frog. “A calm sea, unless the eyes is tearing up, then that’s a stormy one.”
“‘Lips’?”
“Tofu.”
Her pen came to a pause, pecking at the paper as she tapped on it. “Why?”
I shrugged it off, hoping she would let it go.
Her gaze was hot and almost as if she was digging into my brain with her imaginary drills, trying to understand.
All I could think of was not to think of the tofu lips yours tasted like.
I saw nothing but blackness, even when I reached out my arms, until I felt a gentle tug. No, it wasn’t gentle now, a pulling force, a persuasive hand behind my back, pulling me into orbit. We encircle each other, like magnets you pull and repel me, and we stay at this wondrous length, neither clashing into each other. We are equals, or would there have been collision?
The orbit is almost like a traditional square dance, we never touch, but we are at arms length. It’s like that feeling you get when you take a roller coaster ride, you feel that tension building up, the long awaited whoosh down the long rails that will be so imminent. Like a bungee jump without ropes, like a free fall into space. I can almost hear that thudding in my veins, from behind my ears I feel blood rushing to my head, my brain is crushing to a side, or rather gushing outwards with the pressure.
I am nothing but a speck of dust, but I feel so much more.
La Muse 