2202. you can't quite nail what makes the tears fall right now.
maybe it's the empty feeling in this house. emptiness caused by laughter you're not a part of. conversations you hear from up in your room. the cold that seeps through concrete walls and glass windows. the collection of unread books on the shelf. the little marks of bronze spraypaint on the desk you use now, the same desk you used for late night artscapades in the corner of your room in manila, reminiscent. the shapeshifting of the inanimate - cupboards doors floors and ceilings windows and blinds three layers of blankets - from familiar to unfamiliar, juxtaposing your mood accordingly. your bed in the top bunk that's almost never made, the bendy lamp that doesn't have a proper mount, the untouched notebooks at the bottom of your wardrobe.
maybe it's eshita telling you about the new boy she likes and how he was seeing someone but made a move on her, and she liked him; and how it reminds you of you. Don't get into the boat, you say, I'm in it and it's no fun at all. the ripples that become huge waves that make you seasick. he knows how to play with words. time is all he'll ever need. it will be better soon, i miss you, i haven't read in the longest time you used to make me read give me a list of some good books? he knows what words do to you. you told him. Forget me, you said, nineteen hours before depature.
maybe it's the battle with anxiety. the thought that your life isn't completely in your hands. the thought that any frustration now is and will ever be fruitless. the feeling of smallness. the little cry, It's all You. in the leaf-less trees and the sunny rain-clouded sky. in the cold wind that kisses my cheek. in the raindrops that find their place on my glasses. in the paint that is stuck in my fingernails, in the photographs i take with freezing but eager hands. in the silence. in the warmth that comes after i've been under the sheets for a while. under the wings of flying birds, in yellow and red leaves that still hang on and dance with the wind, under the wings of flying birds. in the school i will find myself in after two years. in the words i write. in the words love writes across seas and timezones and white screens. in yesterday, today, tomorrow, and the day after and an eternity after that. under the wings of flying birds.
maybe it's the empty feeling in this house. emptiness caused by laughter you're not a part of. conversations you hear from up in your room. the cold that seeps through concrete walls and glass windows. the collection of unread books on the shelf. the little marks of bronze spraypaint on the desk you use now, the same desk you used for late night artscapades in the corner of your room in manila, reminiscent. the shapeshifting of the inanimate - cupboards doors floors and ceilings windows and blinds three layers of blankets - from familiar to unfamiliar, juxtaposing your mood accordingly. your bed in the top bunk that's almost never made, the bendy lamp that doesn't have a proper mount, the untouched notebooks at the bottom of your wardrobe.
maybe it's eshita telling you about the new boy she likes and how he was seeing someone but made a move on her, and she liked him; and how it reminds you of you. Don't get into the boat, you say, I'm in it and it's no fun at all. the ripples that become huge waves that make you seasick. he knows how to play with words. time is all he'll ever need. it will be better soon, i miss you, i haven't read in the longest time you used to make me read give me a list of some good books? he knows what words do to you. you told him. Forget me, you said, nineteen hours before depature.
maybe it's the battle with anxiety. the thought that your life isn't completely in your hands. the thought that any frustration now is and will ever be fruitless. the feeling of smallness. the little cry, It's all You. in the leaf-less trees and the sunny rain-clouded sky. in the cold wind that kisses my cheek. in the raindrops that find their place on my glasses. in the paint that is stuck in my fingernails, in the photographs i take with freezing but eager hands. in the silence. in the warmth that comes after i've been under the sheets for a while. under the wings of flying birds, in yellow and red leaves that still hang on and dance with the wind, under the wings of flying birds. in the school i will find myself in after two years. in the words i write. in the words love writes across seas and timezones and white screens. in yesterday, today, tomorrow, and the day after and an eternity after that. under the wings of flying birds.
2 comments:
You are quite sad Adi. In a painful and beautiful way. I am sad that everything is melancholy for you. I suppose I measure it given how I would react to the situation if it were me. But you are not me. Yet there is that desire to protect you because I know how harsh the world can be. It was to me. So I share with you the steps I took so that I won't be as harsh for you. Yet, again to each his own pace. To each his own story.
This is beautiful.
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