Oreongutan

"You're cold",

I said as he brushed,

His fingers twined with mine.

The Sun was extra bright,

Clement and cool: his eyes.

My heart lost in the falsities,

drunk on all the vows, soaks up

The sorrow you hide in the boxes.

Balancing the broken yoke of hope

And what I thought was love, 

Alice fell down the rabbit hole.

Meteorically. 

I knew and I knew well,

There's no return of the fallen.

I looked back, held out my hand

For the last brush of your fingers,

Though you turned your back to me,

"Yes, I'm cold."

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms

my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer

and these the last verses that I write for her.

My heart has made its mind up

And I’m afraid it’s you.

Whatever you’ve got lined up,

My heart has made its mind up

And if you can’t be signed up

This year, next year will do.

My heart has made its mind up

And I’m afraid it’s you.

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,   

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:   

I love you as one loves certain obscure things,   

secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

Thou saidst, — O faithless one, self-slain with doubt,

Why seekest thou my loveliness without,

And askest wind or wave or flowering dell

The secret that within thyself doth dwell?

I am of thee, as thou of me, a part.

Look for me in the mirror of thy heart.

"In loving him, I saw a cigarette between the fingers of a hand, smoke blowing backwards into the room and sputtering planes diving low through the clouds. In loving him, I saw men encouraging each other to lay down their arms. In loving him, I saw small-town laborers creating excavations that other men spend their lives trying to fill. In loving him, I saw moving films of stone buildings; I saw a hand in prison dragging snow in from the sill. In loving him, I saw great houses being erected that would soon slide into the waiting and stirring seas. I saw him freeing me from the silences of the interior life."

“Let me have my tax money go for my protection and not for my prosecution. Let my tax money go for the protection of me. Protect my home, protect my streets, protect my car, protect my life, protect my property...worry about becoming a human being and not about how you can prevent others from enjoying their lives because of your own inability to adjust to life.”

Dear stranger,

We don’t know each other but you’re the only one I can talk to right now. Not my mum, my dad. Just you. It’s perhaps because I’m too small and insignificant today. I remember how almost everybody gathered to help me find mum when I got lost in the Walmart aisles last week. But today, I’m invisible to all the people I’m surrounded with. Or perhaps they’re powerless today.

I’m invisible to even my mum. They say that she’s dead. Her bus got shelled and she’s left me here alone. What does “death” feel like? Must it hurt when you die? Does it hurt worse than all the bruises and wounds that I’ve got on my knees and elbows? Does it hurt worse than hunger?

The last I remember is my home smelling like freshly grilled bacon almost ready to be served. But then suddenly, there was my dad kissing me and my mum goodbye. She was crying inconsolably. My eyes had welled up too but I didn’t cry for as my dad always said that I’m his strong little girl.

We were forced to leave the city.

My dad was expected to fight. I and mum got separated and got on different buses. She’d promised she’d meet me finally but they say “she’s dead”. I hope she had a better bus than mine though. My bus smells like a burning corpse and is heavily moist with all the tears being shed.

The quivering hums of the old lady, cries of the little pup and the discomfort of the 9-month pregnant woman on the bus get completely buried in the deafening gunshots and explosions. And so it reminds me, it’s not just me. It’s not only my story, my tragedy. It’s the tragedy of everyone in this bus hugging themselves for the slightest warmth they can gather; the tragedy of everyone back in the city that’s being relentlessly cannonaded over a harmless dispute. It’s the tragedy of everyone fighting in the battlefield trying to protect their motherland, countrymen and families.

How good is the triumph you aspire to achieve that comes with a war?

How good is a piece of land that comes at the cost of your own people?

How good is the power you crave that makes you wash your hands in blood?

P.s. I don’t think I’d survive this barbarity but I hope this letter does.

To whoever reads this letter, I hope you fight for a change. Fight peacefully.

From

Sxxxx (@oreongutan )

Life is blinding me rn that's why hitting up some stranger

I feel adulting may be the worst phase of life for anyone. There's just a lot of thinking to do. I mean how can one expect my 20 year old stoopid ass to decide shiz that's probably gonna impact my entire life further? T_T

Life's really uncertain and if only I could REALLY decide my own shit (that I can't), I'd choose to just go with the flow.