WHEN STRANGER POSTED GREAT QUOTES

"The true genius shudders at incompleteness – imperfection – and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said." 

– Edgar Allan Poe 

INCREDIBLY LOUD, AND DISTANT.

I've recently encountered a new acquaintances. One is a writer that has many achievements that she can be proud of. On our conversation, many topics come up including the topic of "happiness". As most writers tend to be bitter and a cynic while also a sensitive, I have to disagree with a lot of things that she said. I know that I despise her in some way. No, I don't find her intimidating, I did feel intimidated but only for a split second. How would you not? When you're showered with questions about the things you just started learning. She is being incredibly and annoyingly foolish. But no, I know something about her made me despise her. Is it the lack of respect I have towards her? Maybe. She is a smart girl. A smart writer maybe but I know there is something that she says or did that struck a nerve but I don't know if I can be objective to this matter as human memory can be a funny thing, it sometimes tricks you into thinking and believing certain things happens and certain things did not. And others will say they remember different thing.

I also don't think I can be as objective especially when I tend to forget the things that I said or did or that is happening in front of my eyes when my mind wanders into the extremes. But one things that I know is that now that I'm back home, all those strong, intense anger and annoyance has re-emerge. But I honestly don't have the slight intention to let it linger even though I can feel it already consume me. I don't really know what happened on that encounter but its like someone turn on a switch in me and now I'm just so full of anger, once again I'm full of questions unanswered. I want to let it out but I don't want to make myself looking like a big fat fool for saying that I can't really be object to. So now I kept letting it out onto the wrong person. 

Do you wanna know what I miss? The States. Even the tranquil that filled me while I'm in England. I was having a good time in England. It might not be great but it was at least close to good. I got friends who support each other while pushing you to reach your goal instead of forcing you and judging each other. Friends who understands when its time be loud and obnoxious and when its time to have peace and quiet. I know, deep down, I know I won't be happy to be back. I know. Home is too exhausting. Exhaustively anxious. Home is just a place. But its no longer a place I could call home. Not anymore. And people in it too are exhaustively draining, emotionally and physically. I don't understand anyone who wants to come home once they're out of this place. 



I am at home, but I feel so distant.

I am at home, but it feels like hell.

Consumed by fire, I want to turn every single living things into ashes. 

You're probably thinking, 'life is complicated enough, do yourself a favor and stop yourself from filling it with so many drama. Your life is not a greek tragedy, stop acting so dramatic, will you?'

Yeah, well now you know. That is how I feel about the complaints all of you makes. 

I wander so far 

Only to come back

To a place I used to called home

It turns what is familiar into an unknown essence 

And you (and I)

left me alone between the extremes 

But then I read about a woman

Who killed herself because

The demon in her head is savagely stronger than her.

Its fire lit her brighter

Than the light within. It made her

Embrace hell by lighting herself on fire

And so I wrote about a girl, Who 

is fierce but scarred

She embrace the light within but keep her demon at bay

With pure-gold love, 

She created a home filled with 

A glimmering shadows of mosses

She simultaneously turning things mundane, magnificent.

Her peculiar endeavors, blossoms

The ethereal beauty of the world in between.

But words sometimes turns prosaic,

You will always be an enigma to me

And the sturdy voice of chaos will always be a part of me.

So in the midst of the confusion,

I wander away 

To find myself and to find home.

So in the midst of the frustration,

I wander away

To break free from my demons (and yours)

WISHING FOR A BETTER DAY(S)

When you're home but it doesn't feel like home, it feels instead like an abandoned house. 

Hello, how are you? Haven't wrote any post in awhile as I was on a vacation for two weeks and was also so busy with work before that. I was ALSO taking a break from writing as I felt like all the things that I wrote are filled with prosaic words and I don't want to waste any words. I don't want to write things or say things that I can't feel, and mean nothing to me. I don't want the things that I say or write turn into simply a noise; a white noise; an empty words. 

But I'm back now. I'm home. But it no longer feels like home. I don't feel like I'm home. 

Well, I do feel like I'm at home, but things aren't the same. Too much has changed already. It doesn't feel like coming back home, it only feels like coming back to a place that I always visited and come backs to. Home feels like an abandoned house; you know and you can feel that it is filled with memories but its been abandoned for awhile and now all you can feel is the feeling of being abandon. All you can feel is the trace of strong feelings you can't feel anymore.

I guess I'm adjusting again.

I guess I'm an empty vessel again.

I guess I'm trying to be okay again.

I guess I'm trying again.

I guess things should really be different now. Change for the better.

I guess I need to be better.

So much better.



The city is too pretentious and the people in it are also pretentious. I hope that this time would be better and if it doesn't I can be better so that I don't have to stay in it too long.

Let the war and struggles begin. I'll see myself at the finish line.

ON HOLIDAY

WILL BE BACK WITH NEW WRITINGS SOON 

TOLSTOY WAS RIGHT

I used to don't understand how someone can be not on a speaking term with their parents. 

But when your parent act less like a parent every single day and instead of protecting you from all evil and dangers, they're the one that asks for the protection, you can finally grasp the fact that sometimes, even family (or should I have said especially?) can grow apart. And that some people can't change and there is nothing you can do about it. 

Now I understand. 

Love is selfish sometimes. Or is it just me?

These last couple of weeks, my life, body and mind feels as if it is filled with so much rage, darkness, and confusion. I could still feel the fire inside of me. Sometimes I could feel that everything is out of control.

Lately, I have been hating all of my writings that is created with prosaic words. All of it has become more or less a love letter of some kind that I write for no one except myself and amidst the frustration in me, instead of coexisting between the words that I wrote, I only created and resurrected pain and confusion into all of those sheets. It created a burning desire in me to burn all of my books of poems.

I can't seem to put my rage into words. I can feel the rage in me, just not in my words. Just not in my poem. It only sounds like pleading. Its pathetic.

Those pages, those sheets, are like a mirror to me and to be frank with you, I don't like what I'm seeing. I don't like what I have become because I have become lang leav when I'd rather be sylvia plath without the suicide part. but I guess, you can't always get what you want, right?

Anyway, life hasn't really been treating me good lately.

Well, I guess that's not true. Its been treating me fairly, but its just the human nature in me to keep complaining and ask for more. For something better.

Because when you finally see things more clearly, but you still don't like what you're seeing, maybe that's because the only thing left to see is you and the reflection of who used to be, or who you are or who you're going to be and you simply don't like what you're seeing.

Because, do you wanna know one of my deepest secret? Sure, you do.

To tell you the truth, I've always wanted to be a poet but I guess at some point in life, it would be nice to also be a poem.

I don't think that anyone ever wrote a poem about me, let alone a book of poem. But what I know is that someone dedicated... (fill in a blank) for me. Its his way of showing that his love is true and real. I took it for granted and now when I looked back at it and see what he wrote about me, about us, I don't like what I'm reading. I don't like it one bit. Do you wanna know why? Because it shows how selfish I was. How I couldn't see that I wasn't the only one hurting.

Wait.

No, that's not true.

I know that the both of us are hurting, I just didn't know we were hurting from the start.

The other worst thing is how I took it all for granted. How I missed my chance and watched him walked away.

But in spite of it all, what he didn't know is that he left a fragment of his love in me, for me. In a way, I could feel it but it feels so far away. No longer within my grasp.

A friend of mine and I was talking yesterday about love and all I could say is that, "no one can yet handle the immensity of my love," and he said, "no boy deserves to handle your idea of love at this moment."

But what is MY idea of love? I don't even know. I never know. I wrote poems about it, I feel it, but I don't really know what my idea of love is. If anyone ask what my idea of love, I'd probably say that love equals trust issues. Because,

Trust issue. 

It has a way of preventing you to feel all the love you can get.

It has a way of taking your source of happiness and turn it into your source of loneliness.

It has a way of taking everything from you.

Because, sometimes it doesn't guard you from the pain you're going to endure, it only guard you from the love you deserve and the love the people around you deserve to receive from you.

But love could left you feeling all bitter inside.

Especially when life finally gave you the love that you deserve but at the worst time possible.

Especially when you have so much love inside you but no one to give. Its like love that doesn't have a place to go.

Because "he loves me but its like he wishes that I ache the way he ache so he could forgive me" is actually a form of love.

So yes, love equals trust issue. 

God.

See! even my blog post is about love.

And I fucking hate that word.

Love.

What is that even mean?

Love is a dark and vicious thing. It could destroy you in a second. It shows you your true self. But when you see that your true self isn't as kind, gentle and as good as you expected, its like love just spit on your face.

And sometimes, you just can't get the things you needed the most.

Because sometimes, I can't find the right words to explain myself.

And because when I finally do, it doesn't matter anymore.

My mind, body and heart are sore and choking at the strong wanting but never having.

And I wrote myself a love letter because no one can reach the deepest part of my darkest thoughts, except me and I think that's okay.

I'll keep myself warm before getting burn by your flame.

Whoever you are.