dona nobis pacem

i also post rambles about my thoughts and other poetic drivel, use #drivel to find my writing (even though i am not confident in my writing whatsoever)

etymology: from Ancient Greek καλοψία (kalopsía), from καλός (kalós, “good, beautiful, lovely”) + ὄψις (ópsis, “view”). noun kalopsia (uncountable) the delusion of things being more beautiful than they actually are.

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i do always say that i have not felt something like shame in what seems like a long time, but i (perhaps somewhat begrudgingly) dragged myself up the looming glacier with shame snug in my arms like a newborn swaddled in clean cloth. the faint vermilion that spread across my cheeks was not anxiousness or embarrassment at my situation like i initially thought it could be. i was deceived, or perhaps i had deceived myself as i stood and waited for my brain to grant itself audience to a theatre with not a soul in the bleachers.

the rough dark markings engraved onto the sutures of my cranium did not just show up there on their own; they were etched there by hand until my fingernails drew blood and my digits grew numb. i had conducted my own vivisection: i forwent the acts of kindness and traded the foundation of my own being for the fantasy of comfort and peace— and so that is the story of how my “self” came to exist.

i am a person that does not do well under pressure. it is of my own observations and conclusions that i live, for now, to appeal to the wishes of others. like how a chameleon can change colours, i find that i may conceal myself quite easily, whether it is to appear colorful and poisonous so predators do not eat me or to appear warmer and more visually appealing as to blend in with the background.

though i must say that the other end of the bargain was so incredibly banal in the end that i can barely spend the energy into looking closely at myself to see what i have metamorphosed into now; a odd misshapen mixture of every colour and every tint— a chaos formed from prisms of colour. i can witness my form diminish into mist and fall apart, and then i can rematerialize and be restored all at once. i am a hollow shell— i realize this, and i have been somewhat comfortable with the thought, though there are times where it irks me occasionally. i believe that to live is to be dyed in innumerable hues and shades whether you want to or not.

“being nothing isn’t all bad: it means nothing substantial is expected of you, and therefore no unnecessary attention is brought to you," or at least that’s something along the lines of what i believed in back then.

i am not sure if i still believe in such things now. at risk of sounding egotistical, i feel as though i have matured into a historical record; the living manifestation of the ideals, opinions and impressions of the ones who i have seen and connected with. i can barely walk properly on my own, just barely, let alone run, and there are, and will continue to be, many times where i must learn to move myself again, but i will continue to hoist my limbs upwards onto the jagged rocks and drag myself up the mountain crevasse with these heavy weights on my shoulders anyway.

i may be but a blank canvas awaiting the taste of pigment suspended in oils and polymers, and though i may yellow and age and crumble and fall apart, even fake flowers can be beautiful, can't they?

i will unconsciously bring myself back together again, and it is at that point that the cycle repeats— it is a constant cycle of decay and revitalization. the Ouroboros immediately comes to mind. like how a dreaming caterpillar disintegrates into living essence, and emerges from its cage to become a most beautiful creature, and then to eventually fall and transform into nourishment for the soil, which in turn brings about new foliage in the place where it was laid to rest— an old death granting a new life, albeit in a new form, and the cycle continues in tedium until it will one day fall to the same rules.

i will make a promise to myself: no matter what, i will not lose my humanity. regardless of what i am created or transformed into, whether it is by my own will (best case scenario) or by another's, fragments of my “self” will always remain in the hearts of the things i cherish dearly. i can at least hope that they will.

ha·dal

/ˈhādl/

adjective

relating to the zone of the sea greater than approximately 20,000 feet (6,000 m) in depth (chiefly oceanic trenches).

ever since i have been sullied with a regret that goes deeper than my my nerves, shadows of me as a child overwhelm my emotions.

i have these visions; visions where i (they) try to apologize to the younger, more vulnerable me for my (their) transgressions; but they (i) fizzle into the smolders of incense smoke before the words can escape the clutches of my (their) jaws.

i feel the vague surroundings around me collapse, and i cannot help but stare at my perfectly fragile shadow dashing down a vague, dark tunnel. i (they) see me sleeping at the end: cradled in an ominous sheen, like sunlight being cast down to the bottom of the deepest depths of the sea. (is it not equally curious how the terrifying creatures that live there do not know how terrifying they are? are humans even allowed to make such comparisons?)

they (i) stop me (them) before i (they) can reach out to myself (themselves); to feel the warmth of my (their) calloused hands.

no words are spoken. there is no conversation to be had between the countless versions of us, as i (they) would never understand. but through a gentle look, their (my) eyes recite the meanings to me like an ancient codex: what happened was not fair, and it wasn't my fault: i was (they were) just a child then, and i am (they are) now still. i am (they are) everywhere and yet nowhere-- we are amalgamations of blood and marine snow (stardust).

my (their) body disintegrates and my vision warps back to the ordinary rhythm of a dream-- the blackest shade of white.

i've become conscious of these things a lot more often now; when my chest feels like it's wrung that slightest bit too tight and it gets bitterly strenuous to even breathe. when it feels like my life is but a play on a stage, and the sky and horizon feels like one massive cardboard cutout for a set-- like a some cheesy 80s cartoon.

the spent oxygen released from my lungs tends to forgive me for my sins. and so my days and nights continue trudging forward in a boringly comfortable monotony. i feel the younger me's absence as if they were just hazy feverish dreams, like the ones had during intense sickness-- even though i know they dwell in every silent corner and crevice of my beyond-the-pale brain: of the nooks and crannies of my vibrant (monotone) memories.

and deep down, i know these basic truths, yet i reject them so. the Earth (Universe) holds no ill will towards me (them)-- She treats everyone with equal like and dislike. this year will be better for me, surely?

Father Time can be my confidant if i let it, or so many of my therapists, loved ones and strangers have implied.

/ˈhirˌīTH/

noun

(especially in the context of Wales or Welsh culture)

a deep longing for something, especially one's home.

"I could not begin to put into words the hiraeth that the Welsh feel for the mountains and valleys of their homeland."

-

i've turned a year older-- twenty-one, to be exact-- in a body that has life has left behind, and i still don't know where to move this slowly rusting bed frame.

time fractures and breaks into pieces of faded bone-- a mess i cannot find the strength to clean.

my sleepless nights and exhausted days stitch and weave into the dreary summer's dawn and dusk.

my heart tightens as i look down on the remains of the tiniest spider that i could have set free

but i squished out of my twisting fear and disgust, even though i convince myself that spiders do not scare me.

the water of the shower bites painlessly at my skin-- no matter how much i wash myself clean, my body in the mirror reminds me of who i have become.

will i be normal and dive into the sea all over again? in the eyes of the me who can't handle the heat of July, everything seems to wilt in the haze.

my bones still tremble when i think of what i have fumbled and what i have lost. but this bleak blue sky is a silent, fickle mistress-- our time has long since come and gone.

i hoist up this stark white flag with a mouthful of granite.

how will I know when my body becomes mine again?

i never think it will happen to me until it does, like clockwork-- and i collapse to my knees again.

waking up alone in this messy room on the far end of the house, i found myself craving attention-- a nagging flaw i dislike so greatly.

i hated you for the longest time, and i still do, of course, but i do wish you had never left.

you tore us apart, left us soaked in your blood, but we mustered up the strength to wash ourselves clean again.

i do wish i could tell you all that has happened.