1. I feel shit. Went to class, went to see him. Saw him, talked to him, made my day, but I still feel shit. Hoping I will feel less shitty than what I am feeling now. But it doesn’t fade. The shit inside me. It’s always there. If souls are true, I have the shittiest soul.
2. Migraine, the tickling nerves inside my skull. It seems that a caterpillar is undergoing metamorphosis. Changing not for the better, gaining wings not because it needs for fame. It evolves to show everything develops.
3. I suck at talking. I wish we two can just write things or chat or exchange weird messages. I feel more comfortable. Shitty but comfortable.
4. I’ve been sick. Two weeks of coughing. Runny nose, I swear to the gods if runny nose counts as cardio I am fit as fuck. But I wish I will get better.
I told you to wait, my complete words were: Meet me, at 7:00 P.M., sharp, we will both go somewhere, somewhere no one wants but just us, a new world for you and me, I am yours and you are mine and we will be together. I will wait for you or you will wait for me. I promise I will be there.
You nodded, there was a storm in your eyes. You didn’t promise me back, but your tears made me believe it was a strong yes.
Did you forget it?
It was cold, I need a hug, I waited, for an hour, almost. I depicted stars, and I remembered you saying we shouldn’t make wishes for twinkling space objects. That if we wish, say it to someone who will help you make it happen. I remembered you saying all your wishes. You wish to be a lawyer, you wish to travel, you wish to build a house, a hut or a cabin, for you and for me.
Two girls who wanted freedom, we held hand, we kissed, we played each other hair. We cursed our families for telling us we can’t achieve anything. Our love will prove them wrong.
Tell me your reason. I waited there and will always wait. I will wait for answers, and stay for questions.
In the same spot, we promised forever. Started as friends, one kissed turned us as something beyond what we think we are. In that year, we were happy, we thought about the things that can maintain the feelings in our hearts. We decided to leave. We decided to go somewhere.
I could have known it was just me alone who felt everything.
I miss you. It is overrated. The words, in my ears, are two bees creating a deafening buzz sound. I am an alien in my own language. It seems that the words are created to molest my mind, make me believe that there are people who care, people who tell you that you are living in a space in their heart, people who miss you or yearn for you but will do nothing to see you, just pure communication of sentences with no definite meaning, infinite exaggeration. I don’t think I miss you is for me, I reckon that people just come and go. I can say “I miss you” back, it is easy. But it’s not you who I really miss, I miss the memories.
July 26, Saturday
There was something in every hospital, the aroma or the scent, the walls or corridors, the white tiled floors, jack in the box. I rarely go there, the last time I had myself wandered, as far as I remember, was when a friend got sick because of too much coughing—a paranoia—injected and cried. A pussy hidden in a crocodile skin. As we walked along, our feet taking us to where the arrows want us to go, I feel my heart deflating, my brain disappearing, everyone was fading, my hands were not my hands but two slender sticks dangling by my side. I have hypochondria. I worry a lot. Paranoid. Looking at all the rooms, gaining x-ray visions to imagine the patients inside, I had glimpses of them with sickness, diseases only science can explain, feeling of parting, arms reaching out to the ceiling, asking someone to take them home. Kids and mothers and fathers and strangers, lovers, best friends. They’re all scared: nurses and doctors, walk-ins and those who are about to die. Killed by beliefs, murdered by superstitions. I was afraid, I shared their utters of “get well soon” and “I’m sorry”. I listened to the whispers of the shadows, as I was keen to heard, “He will take care of you” told by a boy to his guardian. We walked past those who mourn and reached our destination. In my head, there was a feeling of longing, a mix of emotion of satisfaction and disturbance. This is why I don’t like going to Hospitals: heap of sad eyes.
if you can find death—above your eyebrows, under your chin, between your bones—you will see it staring back at you, yellow demonic eyes, grinning, sharp teeth like the crescent moon. with it is sadness, heap of tears, crying and weeping. mourning, it won’t let you sleep quietly, in your mind the thought of its devouring gaze still haunts you. death will melt your skin, turn your nails to dust, your hair to ashes, your blood to air, your hopes to memories. death is just there, but is hidden or invisible, but it’s there, as your predator, as someone you trust with true motives of betrayal, as someone you care but with a stone heart. if you can find it, tell death that you’re also waiting.
i think, me and him are quite the same. same sad childhood, same wanting. love deprived. wanting attention in a different way, an attention for inner peace, a call for freedom of thoughts. curiosity over confusion. apathetic. we are two lost souls looking for happiness, holding onto the strings of huge balloons as they take us higher till they burst, till gravity will pull us back, till earth will kiss us and roots will hinder us from taking another possibility. happiness: a word crossed out in one of the thick pages of our dictionary. we want it. we still search it. we buried it somewhere, deep in our skin.
9:28 pm. I swear—to the nights that I lied awake, rolled and tried to be awake, owl’s hour, night for wolves to howl, the sky’s favorite time to show the collision of dimness and sparkles—that there’s something in my head, a thought, an inkling anchored, roped, knotted and attached to the slim branches of my brain nerves.
10: 36 pm. I swear—to the morning after, to the sun concealed against the feathers, to my mum who will cook me breakfast, to my dad who will tell me to take care, to those who care—that there’s something in my head, I don’t think it will make me meet you all soon.
2:04 am. I swear—to you and to the memories you gave, to your smiles and to my imagination of your broken teeth and trimmed beard, to the punches in your head you wish you give to those who mocked you once, to your dreams and your visions, to who you want to become, to you in tuxedo, to you who told me, “I haven’t achieved anything, yet.”—that you’re the line separating night and day.