A Selenophile’s Confession

The moon is the keeper of whispers.
The moon is the deity to the souls of the romantic.
The moon is the light for the desperate and relentless.

Unlike the sun, it won’t hurt your eyes with its brilliance
It’ll let you stare at it’s imperfections.
It’ll let you stare at it’s vulnerability as it waxes and wanes.

When the world sleeps, she’ll raise her head to guide the adrift.
When the world sleeps, she’ll raise her head to luster,
Luster for those who seek beauty in the darkness,
For those who are willing to gaze into the abyss above our heads.

The moon is not afraid
Of the dark.
     Of the void.
Of the fear.
And neither should you.

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Pitiful Ramblings

. . .

I don’t know what to write anymore. It’s all been said. Multiple times. I’m tired of seeping pain through this stupid keyboard and onto this indifferent screen. I’m tired of staring at these words knowing that they are mine yet lose all their meaning. Detached mess of letters splashed across your screen.

It’s all useless in the end, anyway. What am I achieving with this? Nothing. Writing is no more a solace. Not for this (I’ve even run out of metaphors :|). No one who knows, fully understands. I don’t expect others to pry me open either. The few who do actually know me are probably as clueless as I am. And I get it, a lot of people have it much worse than I do but that doesn’t ease my pain any less. I wish it did but it doesn’t. I’m still feeling that same fucking emotion and I don’t know what to do about it anymore. The same feeling with the same tears and the same desperation. What am I to do?

Can’t stay silent anymore but won’t scream this agony. No. Now it feels like that’s all I’m made of. Pain. Anger. Bitterness. This is my entity. This is my being. I’m afraid that even if I manage to push the words out of me, all that will be left behind would be an empty shell. At least there’s something under this skin of mine. Even if it’s a stanger’s essence I no longer acquaint with. Something is better than nothing.

I give up. That’s it.

. . .

Don’t worry.
I say all of these things but I’ll still crawling back. Where else can I go ?

 

Water.

Don’t you dare touch her, boy.
She is water.
Her eyes imitate the abyss of the mighty oceans combined.
And that abyss isn’t afraid to stare right back.
So don’t you dare plunge into her soul
For she’ll whip up a storm from the ripples you make.
And as you try to grasp at her being,
She’ll slip right through your fingers.

…

Silence, take over me.
Find me when my mouth fails to send the message.
Escape my whispers and scream these utterances to their ears.
Wriggle out from my clutches and reach to others.
Take my heart and wreck it.
Wreck it.
Wreck it till I shout.
Goddamnit. Leave me. Let me be. Let others hear the cacophony.
Let me dwell in my symphonies.
Please.
Silence, take over me.

Fire.

Don’t you dare touch her, boy.
For she is fire.
Sometimes she’ll flicker, and sometimes she’ll dance.
But you’ll be burning just the same.

Him.

Darling, he’s the kind of person to muzzle the world just so he can hear you laugh. So when you find him, don’t keep him. Enchant him.
He’s the kind of person who dims the stars just so you could shine brighter. So when you find him, don’t keep him. Bewitch him.
He’s the kind of person who’ll choose broken bones over broken hearts even if his bones are the one to shatter. So when you find him, don’t just keep him. Love him.

 

 

Writer’s Splash (9)