Saturday, May 23, 2015

When words don't come easy

Casual weekend. Ignoring the alarm. Waking up late. Wasting the day away sprawled in bed, drifting in and out of sleep.

And as I was revisiting some books in my shelf in between those lazy moments, I suddenly came across this:

Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage
The first thing that came into my mind was "Haruki Murakami, reading my mind and baring my soul since 2011". No, but seriously, the moment I read that, I remember thinking how it perfectly sums up everything that I've been trying my best to ignore for the past few weeks (or months, rather).

I also remembered having similar thoughts like this in the past. This was from almost 2 years ago:
It hurts me to face the fact that words don't really come easy just when you need them. I've always wanted to share this, but somehow, anything I say or write isn't enough. The sad realization is that sharing something so dear to you, so close to you is like exposing a part of you that you could never afford to put out in the open. 
Well, yeah.

The thing is I am undergoing something not strictly pleasant right now. And no matter how much I don't admit it, or better yet, offer myself consolations just to lessen the casualty -- one thing still remains, and that's the fact that I was deeply hurt. I may feel more stupid than hurt right now, but that doesn't change the fact that I felt pain. 

Acting indifferent, or better yet denying it even happened was the shortcut to (almost) forgetting it altogether. Because that's what you do. You deny and deny, you (try to) forget and forget. That's the start to moving on. That's the start of getting a life outside of it. But in reality, it's not. You stop acting on it, but your mind doesn't. Every night you lie there, with your head propped in that soft pillow of yours, and then your mind would wander -- to that. Every single time.

But really, I am not sure if I'm even making sense at this point. There are moments when I imagine that if people could see what's in mind, they'd see something like this:

See that? Why explain when you, yourself, can't understand? A jumble of ideas not making sense. Struggling to ooze out of you mind. And the sad reality was: you can't even let it out.

I used to be that girl who bleeds and vomits -- translating every feeling into words, writing them. In the past, writing has been a really effective way of taming my thoughts. When it goes wild, I write. When it's too much, I write. When I can't understand myself, I write. And now, I'm not even sure how. 

There were moments (and believe me, there were many) when I was so ready to type it all out, but then when I was faced with this blank canvass, I hold back, I try but nothing comes out. It's not a case of writer's block, if you call it that -- because I don't feel like there's nothing to write. It feels like the opposite, rather. There's so much going on, I don't even know what to pick up. And in the end, I wasn't able to write anything down. It's almost scary.

It's so easy to use "I've been busy" as an excuse, but sadly, I am not. Honestly speaking, I drowned. I drowned on my thoughts. I drowned on my emotions. And in the end, nothing came out. I was close to overflowing, but it didn't even spill -- imagine the feeling.

Just like now. Right at this moment, when I stopped writing that last paragraph, I had the urge to just delete everything that I've typed at that point. But I am choosing not to, because I know this will amount to something more.

I want to go back to being that girl. Expressing without fear of judgment. Continuing on even if the narrative feels disjointed just for the sake of letting it out.  Exposing, once again, a part of me to anyone who cares to read on.

I think there's courage in being vulnerable. I want to be brave again.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Book: Chasers of the Light by Tyler Knott Gregson

One morning when I felt that my surrounding was too suffocating to even put up to, I took a break from work. I woke up late. Had a big meal. Strolled at the nearest mall. Went into the staple coffee shop. And I walked and I walked only to find myself in this now too familiar book store, asking if they have a copy of this book that I've been meaning to buy since forever. It was at the back of my mind, but it was an impulse decision altogether.

It started to rain - hard. And as I forgot my umbrella that day, I found myself stranded. So I went to the nearby fountain, spent my time reading, the sound of pouring rain and the splashing of water my background -- and I got lost, reading. It took a call or two from a friend to rouse me out of that daydream.

It was like fate -- having me pick that book up, that very day -- wounds still fresh, mind in a jumble. And in that fountain, where I sat lost in trance, I began to rediscover my love for poetry. At that moment, all I can think of was that "poetry understands, if not heal" in the most beautiful way.

It's just that: a man who fell in love with the idea of writing "without thinking, without planning, and without the ability to revise anything" in the most breathtaking way -- through poetry.

I've never been shy of expressing my love for Tyler Knott Gregson [1,2] -- even going as far as declaring that he's my favorite poet. He's the reason why I consider Lang Leav a bit childish for my taste (she has her moments, but sorry guys). I know a poem is a good poem when it rips through my heart, when I can feel it. The intention came across. And it happens, every.single.time I read a Tyler Knott poem.

Tyler Knott has given poetry a new body for me, to be honest. I used to lose interest in the art. But the moment I followed him at Tumblr back at 2011, I knew -- that I'm in for something beautiful. I'll forever be a supporter of the way he brings things out in the open, exposing them for everyone to see. I can even see myself aspiring to be the writer that he is. But alas, I remain an admirer of his work. Following him through the years. It was always a pleasure, a thanks-for-bringing-something-so-heartbreakingly-beautiful-to-the-table kind of pleasure.

And this book didn't disappoint. This was merely a collection of his best through out the years -- and honestly, some of my favorites didn't even make the cut -- but it's still a great, breathtaking collection all the same. Printed in glossy paper, and full color. This may be a bit pricey, but it's worth it. Read it, and feel the feels. I warn you.

My Rating: ★★★★☆ (4 out of 5 stars)

Luckily enough, we're blessed by his site containing thousands of materials from him. Check out, and behold thy exquisite beauty.

Thursday, May 14, 2015


I know that things are getting shitty when I start to contemplate shutting this blog down.

It happened many times before, but luckily, I left it alone. Those are times when my thoughts surge in a frenzy and I can’t make sense of the world that I just wanna erase my alternate existence just to at least cool down and escape judgment.

But it's not that easy. Deleting a part of yourself would never be easy.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Unsent Letter #5

May 6, 2015 | 1:26 AM


I don't exactly hate you,
I just feel plain stupid at the moment;

and now,
I am back at square one.



Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...