#writingsontumblr

here in the city

moving with crowds

here in places

i can never be found

standing still but

urging to leave

hands are in chains

and eyes are in tears

maybe you'd think that

it's okay to choose

but what about everyone

who depends on me too?

constantly waiting

for happiness too

something that doesn't

need me to bruise

i thought it'll be different

but it's entirely fine

what else can i do but

set me aside

constantly waiting

for happiness too

one that doesn't

"She felt attracted by their weakness as by vertigo"

(Milan Kundera - The Unbearable Lightness of Being)

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your absence fans my love, I'll tell you how.

look what you've done to me. 200 pages in a day, a million thoughts in my head, and only one or two people i can call in my dismay (i don't, that's a different thing). you had asked me to read it in one sitting, but you're everywhere. you're too much and everywhere; i am bonding with your absence. your absence and i are good friends now.

but look at the misery of it all. the repetition. the circle of time. Yeats. our little motif. waking up from a sleepless rest at 1 am and thinking about someone you can't do anything about. thinking about someone you couldn't do anything about. thinking about someone you want(ed) to do everything with. this lonesomeness is ancient, the desire to fill it with a presence is ancient, love itself is ancient. yet, i think of her body next to mine, and saying to her, almost in a childish whisper, 'i want you. i do love you. but the universe has already told me it is impossible.' i think of the fragility of time, how it is senseless, utterly meaningless. yet, we tend to base our very existence upon it.

I am not part of your uniformity.

I am not one of your discrepancies.

Do not expect me to give my apologies

to your world, comparable to a high school 

yearbook, where life supposedly consists 

of a select few of people

Like your world, full of hidden hostilities:

the same hostilities that slay for sport

to prey on my image like a wildebeest carcass.

Like your world, who cannot even understand

itself. An expectation to be like everyone else

in a world that promotes to be yourself.

“Time makes us sentimental. Perhaps, in the end, it is because of time that we suffer.” - Andre Aciman (call me by your name)

“before you go (please don’t go) turn the big light off” - The 1975 (i like it when you sleep for you’re so beautiful yet so unaware of it)

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someday, perhaps on an evening with the kind of weather you like - without the sun - shadowy and grey, i would tell you my interpretation of this big light. or perhaps on one of our beds, enclosed within each other, i would watch you sleep while your eyes tell me the secrets of the world, the ramz, one of which would be the meaning of this big light. quietly, we’d step out of each other’s shoes, climb out of bed, wear our socks, and turn that light off. 

rehearse the pain. anticipate the sorrow. think of the pain before the pain. and look at the naked humanity of time, the crude human-ness of time, the fallibility of time. how the moment has stretched, how the moment has transformed, how the that has turned into this and the this into that...

i believe the smoke will clear away. i believe the mist will reveal a beautiful scenery which we shall be a part of. and i can't force it anymore, the words and my hands, they will find their way. i refuse to believe they are incapable. these flowers are you. inside my diary. in my hands. 

/a universe exists

between

all you ever were

and