Day 22: 2011

2011 was the year where everything that could go wrong, did. It was the year where I was drowning in everyone's expectations but more importantly I was pushing my own head underneath the water. And I couldn't breathe. Every time I think back to that year, I find myself hyperventilating.

I'm afraid of failing.

2011 was the year where I let myself fall into temptation out of desperation. It wasn't love. And it wasn't quite lust either. It was just two lonely people seeking comfort in each other's warmth. At that far corner of my mind, I knew you were using me but I let you because I was using you too. I needed to feel my heart bashing against my ribcage. I needed to feel loved. I needed to feel alive.

I was afraid that I was dying inside.

2011 was the year where I died inside my head almost every night. I thought I was going crazy. I was losing a battle with the crazies inside my mind. I spent my days psychoanalysing myself. I was one step away from a mental breakdown. And I didn't want anyone to know. I didn't want anyone to know that I was losing.

I was afraid of my own shame.

2011 was the year where I barely survived. I came out of that abyss with scars that would haunt me for life. It was the year where I met you and learned to doubt emotions. You told me what I wanted to hear. You tainted my precious words. Promises to you meant nothing: they were simply sweet nothings.

I'm afraid of promises.

Steganography I

Words are a blank canvas inside my head.

They are the night sky without the twinkling stars.
There used to be days where we would count the empty spaces like the alphabet.
One is the letter A: without the support beam it is merely a broken down tent.
Two is the letter B: a butterfly with half its wings clipped out.
Three is the letter C: an incomplete circle of me and the cut out piece of you.

What happened to those days where Knights of the Round Table practised courtship?
And, “I love you” meant a promise of forever?
Not these little mind games that end at the tip over of an hour glass.
Where sand buries memories like ancient cities that may never have existed. 

Poetry is the incomplete heart beat of words I’ll never say out loud.
They are the whispers of wishes without a genie from the lamp.
There used to be days where we would watch dreams flutter by my window.
Spring was when we played chasies with young puppy love.
Summer was when sleepless nights meant losing ourselves in the war of depression.
Autumn is our chance to let go of baggage to make room for new smiles.  

Because, memories are meant only as keepsakes.
Precious little diary scrawls locked away at the bottom of my bedside table.
They’re not supposed to burden the world on our shoulders like Atlas.
Love can always be found, if not with another, at least inside your own heart. 

Colour

Red is for passion in the arms of a kiss
Orange is for holding hands, watching the sunset
Yellow is for waking to the morning in your bed
Green is for pickingg clovers in a field of dreams
Blue is for happiness just caught in my fingertips
Indigo is for a love that was a second too late
Violet is for memories you'll always keep

I used to write so much

Yesterday, I came to the realisation that I don't write that much anymore.
Writing in general.

Yesterday, I was going through all my high school stuff that still remained through years of spring cleaning. As I flicked through notebooks, I realised that all those notebooks were drafts of stories I wrote years ago. And there were heaps of them. There were pages and pages of writing in faded lead and ink.

I cringed at some of my early writing styles and my poor grammar. And I smiled at some the cliche character names I camed up with. King Dignity. Really? Really? What was I thinking??

I wish that I still wrote as much.

The ideas used to always come so freely.

It used to be so fun. Now when I write, if it's not good quality, I won't like it.

I also realised that I don't write by hand anymore.
Maybe I should write by hand more often, maybe it would be fun again.

Shoe box

Every time I clean my room, I stumble upon that shoe box that holds memories of last year. I always say that I'm going to throw it out but I can't ever bring myself in doing so. Instead, I merely hide it in another corner of my room until I dig it out under the layer of dust in a few months time.

I don't love him.
I know that much. But how do I explain it? He was someone that was important to me in that brief time spent together. He made me happy. Even though those smiles were laced with tears; he did make me happy. Even now when we walk pass each other on the streets, we pretend that last year never happened but in my eyes I can still picture him in my room. Because of those sweet memories, I can't bear to chuck the box away like trash. But I can't stand looking at it's contents either.

We are strangers now.

I was the one who decided that he wasn't The One.
And he was the one who decided that I was a Bitch.

Those love notes piled in the shoe box are meaningless now.

So why can't I bring myself to throw them out?

Bad Habits

I know that I said in Last Letter that I would no longer dedicate posts to My Unknowing Guitarist but this post is a special case, because right now I am having difficulties in writing stories. Now that I have given up on him, I have also given up on all those feelings that fuel my writing. Always, he was my inspiration. Why is it that I feel so numb? My heart feels hollow. . .

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Afternoons, I walk to the bust stop like clockwork. I time myself to be there between 3.30 and 4pm.
I pry my eyes between business men and senior citizens. He isn't there. But my heart doesn't drop like it used to. My chest is hollow. Its only out of habit.

My mouse clicks on Youtube and I always listen to his songs. His songs that always haunts me.Why? His songs that can only calm me. My fingers still strum his melodies. The intricate notes. But my heart no longer yearns for a duet. I don't feel anything. I have become numb. Its merely a bad habit.

Forget Me Not

There is a short tale that goes with these little blue flowers and I'm sorry that it is slightly depressing. Long ago, a knight and his beautiful lover were walking by a river. The knight loves his lady very much and wanted to find something lovely to give her. Just so happens, he discovers some sweet blue flowers by the river's edge and decided to pluck them for his lover. However, while picking those flowers, he slips into the river and drowns by the weight of his armour but before dying he threw the flowers to his lover.

His last words were: " Forget me not !!"

On a similar topic, I recently started reading this manga series called Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles. This manga, I believe is a must read for believers in true love and true strength. It's a story of a long struggling journey of many dimensions and worlds to recover the memories of a love one. But the price is high to have the aid to travel dimensions and the price for the protagonist is his most precious possession. To him the most precious thing is the actual relationship between him and his most important person.

So in the end, even if he can recover her memories and save her life, she will never remember him. . .

To me, that would be devastating but I think it would take a lot of determination, patience and love to do such a thing but than again, there is no price on true love.

I believe that doing something like that would be very difficult and truly heartbreaking because no matter what, no matter who you are, everyone wants to be remembered by their most important person. Because, you want to be someone significant in their life as they are in yours.