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LIFE IS GIVING APPLES, SO I'M MAKING ORANGE JUICE OUT OF THEM.
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How will I ever forget that Midsummer, that moment after the rain fell. The bleakness before that seemingly enveloping the world in black and white. How will I forgot the smirk painted in your lips. Was it a tease, how will I ever forget us, our hands intertwined. Wounding the coarse surface of the damp meadows in rippling sways orchestrated by the cool summer breeze. How will I ever forget the front lawn with trees gleaming with the dangling freshness of the rain’s scent. How will I ever forget us, the way we danced gleefully with the sunflares penetrating the leaves in struggling ooze. How will I ever forget the streak of bright lights reflected in your hazel eyes. How will I ever forget the refracted light creating a colorful arc showcasing a splendor of colours hovering above. How will I eve forget your high-pitched giggles as I carried you, because it’s likely I’ll drop you dead, talking about my skinny physique and frail upper body strength. How will I ever forget the Für Elise we overheard from the neighbor’s house and how we thought it sounded bizarre and creepy. How will I ever forget the way we mutually wished for the moment to freeze lulled in the clouded complacency of youth, that make-believes exist, that the universe conspires for love. How will I ever forget the night after that, when we stayed outside poeming about random things not caring a bit about the world so blissfully protracted as if dawn will never come.

How will I ever forget that Midsummer, that moment after the rain fell. The bleakness before that seemingly enveloping the world in black and white. How will I forgot the smirk painted in your lips. Was it a tease, how will I ever forget us, our hands intertwined. Wounding the coarse surface of the damp meadows in rippling sways orchestrated by the cool summer breeze. How will I ever forget the front lawn with trees gleaming with the dangling freshness of the rain’s scent. How will I ever forget us, the way we danced gleefully with the sunflares penetrating the leaves in struggling ooze. How will I ever forget the streak of bright lights reflected in your hazel eyes. How will I ever forget the refracted light creating a colorful arc showcasing a splendor of colours hovering above. How will I eve forget your high-pitched giggles as I carried you, because it’s likely I’ll drop you dead, talking about my skinny physique and frail upper body strength. How will I ever forget the Für Elise we overheard from the neighbor’s house and how we thought it sounded bizarre and creepy. How will I ever forget the way we mutually wished for the moment to freeze lulled in the clouded complacency of youth, that make-believes exist, that the universe conspires for love. How will I ever forget the night after that, when we stayed outside poeming about random things not caring a bit about the world so blissfully protracted as if dawn will never come.




I wonder about the kind of bleakness you get from this. Are you one of the weary ones who surrender to the apparent gloom? Do you slide that tired soul in the sheets and quench a quintessential rest, unfazed by the menacing forces and wait until sleep consumes your whole being. Are you like the ones who carry a heavy heart? The ones belittling the liberating power acquiescence to letting go and moving on. Brazing imaginary fetters to the memories of a not so happy times of the past. Will the sad sight rekindles all the eclipsed scars and pains and relive the old days. Do you realize that you’re missing the gift of the present?. Are you one of those sucker for solitude? Do you see this as a moment calibrated to perfection,where and when the absence of light sublimes your need to function in the recesses of social touches. Does listening to the reverberating footsteps, the sound of your own heartbeat teeming with abandoned struggle tantamount to equanimity? And is that sense of well being in equanimity commensurate to peace. Are you the romantic, the dreamer who sees another poignant scene? That beyond monotonous shade of the blinds there’s a beautiful moon that casts a pallid glow. Do you feel an insatiable agitation to create when you gain a sense of distance to the world. Do you see it as a chance to collect all the shattered fragments and with all the romanticizations solve the puzzle? Are you one of the romantic hearts brimming with unprecedented optimism that there’s a hidden beauty even in the bleakest states. 
Who are you in the face of sadness?
(This is my first collaboration with the talented Ariana @ superavenue. Her photograph, my words. Send some love to her.)

I wonder about the kind of bleakness you get from this. Are you one of the weary ones who surrender to the apparent gloom? Do you slide that tired soul in the sheets and quench a quintessential rest, unfazed by the menacing forces and wait until sleep consumes your whole being. Are you like the ones who carry a heavy heart? The ones belittling the liberating power acquiescence to letting go and moving on. Brazing imaginary fetters to the memories of a not so happy times of the past. Will the sad sight rekindles all the eclipsed scars and pains and relive the old days. Do you realize that you’re missing the gift of the present?. Are you one of those sucker for solitude? Do you see this as a moment calibrated to perfection,where and when the absence of light sublimes your need to function in the recesses of social touches. Does listening to the reverberating footsteps, the sound of your own heartbeat teeming with abandoned struggle tantamount to equanimity? And is that sense of well being in equanimity commensurate to peace. Are you the romantic, the dreamer who sees another poignant scene? That beyond monotonous shade of the blinds there’s a beautiful moon that casts a pallid glow. Do you feel an insatiable agitation to create when you gain a sense of distance to the world. Do you see it as a chance to collect all the shattered fragments and with all the romanticizations solve the puzzle? Are you one of the romantic hearts brimming with unprecedented optimism that there’s a hidden beauty even in the bleakest states. 

Who are you in the face of sadness?

(This is my first collaboration with the talented Ariana @ superavenue. Her photograph, my words. Send some love to her.)



I DON’T KNOW WHAT I CAN SAVE YOU FROM

PSEUDOPERFECTION:

I am okay. I guess that’s fair way to start this, right? Let’s open this book for one last time and maybe bury things from the past, to where they belong. I don’t know if you are aware of how you make me feel about some certain things and pardon me if I never gathered the balls to tell you this and convey clarity in my words. Allow me to be ambiguous for one more. I’m starting to lose faith in this story, truth be told. I don’t want you to just introduce me to a moment, I want you to breathe life in its characters, I want us in every single pages and chapters. I want you to stay with me struggling over conflicts and win over villains and antagonists. I want this tale to see us in its climax, because this is our story. I am not asking you to reciprocate everything, I just need you to be consistent and reasonable enough. I’ve been wearing this heart on my sleeve since day one, extending my hands just to make sure you fall unscathed. And you know that if only I have the means, I will ditch my life here and conquer miles just to be with you. That place with its palaces and population having the same number, the promise of snow in winters and its people with sexy accent is not a bad place to start a life after all. But, I don’t have the luxury to move, yet. You’ve been telling me not to keep my hopes up, thank you. Tell my mind not to, but my heart has its own sets of judgement. You are not the only one who has a say in this, I do too. All I want is to be strong enough and be ready, and so were you, and so are you.

GIFTEDANDUNSCRIPTED

There are times where I feel content with my current state of being and then all of a sudden my life flashes sending a flood of unrequested thoughts; all surrounding you. I don’t know what it is about us that just makes what we are, what we do or what we want so damn complex. There is so much that you want from this and so much that I am not yet willing to give. Who is to say that what you see with me is the same as to what I see with you? That is the downfall of committing to an idea before you commit to the person. In your head and in your heart you are wrapped around this fictitious notion that we are to be seen as one and live within this unbreakable vase of unity. Within this vase you have painted the picture of what I would like to call irrationality alongside of this figurative reality that we could conquer all. I’m not ready to delve into this version of the world with you, my heart is flattered but my mind sees more than just you. Of all the places we can go and of all the things we can do, I see myself being restricted by the thought of my life being sync’d to you. I send my love and I grasp onto your words and pray that you find the one that could give you what you deserve. For I am just another character misplaced into your tale, I robbed you of your sense of judgment, and instead of apologizing I’ll bid you a farewell.



pseudoperfection:

When was the last time he saw a smile on her face, it must have been around this time last year.

He can’t remember their last conversation, a good conversation to specify, was it two weeks ago, a month from now? Scratch. Reckoning is dragging him off, and this is no time to entertain the invitation of the dark side. He has to be the man he once was; has to be strong, has to steer this ship in the right direction. She on the other side is waiting, always has. Though things are uncertain out there, he can feel his heartbeat, intense enough, willed enough to make things right. To put the pieces to where they belong. The same heartbeat that silenced the world, the pessimism and the fears that lurk with it.

He saw her last night, and forever flickered. She is still the same girl he knew, same girl he adores. Her face bears an amber glow, flawless and ethereal, a joy to look at. He doesn’t need guilt to wrapped his mind around, to make it a fuel to correct the wrong, there’s something more than it that draws him. and with that, he is sure. He could have apologized, hugged her in the scene and pour it all, if they were an arm’s length. He can’t believe it, he hurt her. And he has to go for the missing link. For what that bright expression that seems to suggest a smile fails to conceal.
She needs him, he feels the same.

In seeing her, the relief is huge. The things he’d missed while they were apart from each other is too much to bear at the same time. What concerns him now is to grab what’s left and not mourn over what’s lost. He got a chance, and he’s not going to let it pass. In seeing her, he realized, he is cracking a door, allowing light in, illuminating a room into what has for months been an all black interior. And his smile that lay tormented when she’s gone; has to feel a genuine sense.

“And I’ll drive for two hours, to bring butterfingers. I don’t mind the distance, this kismet’s a dance”, sings his favorite song on the stereo. He saw her and immediately got out of the car. She saw him too, and hesitates in the process. He grabbed her hands, she looked at him. All her waiting moment and all his effort to find her had led to this moment. What died for months will again see colors, and they will not themselves again be blinded. His words rife with sincerity, searching muslin haze for streaks of clarity. He finally manages to say speak…

When was the last time I saw you smile? It must have been around this time last year.

ethereal-sprite

The imaginary blindfold itched at her eyelids, and she wondered when it would go away, or had it always been there? Had she be born with this hindrance to her sight? She could have sworn the sky was bluer than it was now, the sun warmer on her skin and the trees greener in the spring. It had all faded since he left, had been washed away by the tears that she denied she let fall. The time was counted, but never really felt, never really lived or breathed it, it became the past sooner than it became the present, but thinking that made her miss the time past even more. Like as she tried to collect the fallen pieces of herself off the floor, the empty spaces became more apparent and she stroked them with longing fingers, only to curse them as she realized. Allowing such thoughts to grow in her head would not help her; she stifled her heart and smothered it, in hopes of it forgetting, as her eyes forgot the feeling of losing themselves in bluer skies.

Forgetting never bid her well; people in the street could easily be him. His hair colour. His eyes. His favourite colour. Everything was tied to something else, an invisible tagline and inscribed with him. His scent. His smile. The feeling of his eyes on her. It was always slightly there, and slightly not, and she tried her hardest not to look. Not to glance around, anticipating. Anxious and nervous to find him standing by. But she held her eyes as she held the smile, with broken glass in the corners and the determination to pretend a little while longer. If she looked, she would be sure, as her eyes traced around the faces and the places, she would surely not find him, and with it, not be able to hope. Hope he was waiting on the edge, hope he was stepping towards her, hope he was just a little lost. Looking would make the lack of him real, substantial, proven. Looking and not seeing him, was like glancing at her ringing phone and reading the number, for a spilt second it could be him, and a split second later, it was not.

His shoes. His laugh. His favourite song.

The sound of his favourite song and his face snatched her attention, making her pause in step. The rapid drum of her heartbeat in her fingertips left her breathless, unsure of the truth before her. So many times she had sworn to have seen him, and found the reality wearing a mask, and a façade of kindness. She lowered her gaze, apprehensive, fearful of looking to not find him, scared of deception. Each step closer left her scrabbling to catch her heart before it escaped her lips and the warmth of his hands on hers drew her eyes up to his. The blindfold was dropped and lost, as she found herself surrounded by colour and life, blooming from the corners of her eyes. Her lungs drew in oxygen to its deepest points, as if she’d been slowly drowning in their separation and only now could breathe. The sound of his voice eased her, even with her heart thudding against the inside of her ribcage, eagerly attempting to gain his attention.

As if habit, her lips curved into a smile as her eyes tried to capture him, everything. All those times she saw him before, felt like they were merely washed photographs, sketches and outlines, shadows and ghosts. Before her now, was life, and paint, and colours, and it hit her so suddenly that she could not completely fathom it. A breath out and her mind finally finding the connections to her lips, her voice…

Then it must be a year since I saw anything as amazing.

(via cicatricose-deactivated20121009)



HELL AND BACK

PSEUDOPERFECTION:

It saddens me crossing a line, a confine filled with heartbreaks and lost hopes, I wish I didn’t see to begin. A corner with no defenses, instances when I wish to retrieve my steps and turn my back to falter my growing consciousness to the ugly side of relationship and commitments. It leaves me tear-eyed, sensing young hearts giving up to the promise of love, experiencing juvenile empathies, siding to the joy, pain, youth, discoveries and lessons with the other person, to the opposite sex. And collects frustration, drags self esteem to the ground in the long run. Not only because reality and their expectations didn’t meet, not because they fail to comprehend its intricacies, but they thought it has to do with love. There’s something queer about people fixated with the idea about music parallel to the saddest songs, about short stories into tragedies, essays in a page or two that tell how hurt they are, how weak their faith, sealed with tears, signed with pains. Love is supposed to be the warmth of the rising sun after a cold night, your lamp that lights your way to the end of the tunnel, your parachute on a skydive, an oasis for desert nomads, a familiar trail for the lost travellers. It is this precious, it saves, it defines hope and faith. A magic itself, a mystery in every way.

Love and waning hope in it, justify please?

PANDORASBOAT:

You are seeing this, from a line of deception, abandonment, hatred and pain. Yes, cornered hearts filled with more reasons to attack than defend, more hope in dying than breathing a last gasp of air. These hearts are glancing at you with envy and glory; you are the heart that is constantly beating while their pulses are “waning”. You are still yet to go through the battlefield that is lurking with serpents of deception, you are still yet to fall off a cliff, you are still yet to be bombed with accusations and agony. You are barricaded from this, you have seen the damage and you know to trespass no longer on the decaying trails of travelers. Because you have seen our corpses, you have smelt the cold blood that is trickling from our veins.

Love is indeed magic, and we are contorted of colors from it. We are the examples of abandoned love and it is unjustifiable.



PSEUDOPERFECTION wrote:

Let me invade the heart and mind of the infatuated; familiarize me with every inch of its bliss and all the temporaries that fall to its confines. Spare me the drug that caused your highs or teach me to unfetter from all my maladies—or my senses themselves as I transcend, living my Utopian dream and escape from the touches and my orientation of everything real. Allow me to sing the song of the stars or be mesmerized by the patterns situated beautifully in the Northern Sky. Place me in front of the gods and goddesses. Permit me to aim Eros’ arrow to the hardened hearts, steal Zeus’ lightning, be lured by Medusa’s eyes or free all the devils from Pandora’s box—let me intervene their affairs for no reason.

Let me woo you with prose or poetry, or be serenaded by the songs of my smitten heart. Let me free fall and defy gravity as I bewilder with how you fascinate me. Love—maybe, mere admiration—perhaps. Stay with me in these cold summer nights,  let’s talk in a far different fashion, or just be lost in this awkward silence. Or just spell promises that we never really mean to keep.

Prove to me that there’s a thrill in eternity or acquiesce with my skepticism that it doesn’t exist to begin with. Take me to Atlantis or Lemuria. Allow me to cross in your reveries or clothe me like the monster in your nightmares. Perfect me to meet you lofty standards, fool me to mask your mundane desires or alienate me to the in betweens—for I am unfazed to be hurt. Beat me until I become frailty, too frail to break into pieces in just a single blow.

Teach me resilience. Negate my odd beliefs and renew my once unblemished hope.

MYELEPHANTINE wrote:

Allow me to demonstrate what a possibility of love this can be, illustrate to you in a carefully crafted prose how I wish to break in to your heart and vandalize it’s walls with my name.  I don’t think the entire conglomerate of words ever made can evoke the same passion behind what I’m trying to convey.  My desire to encapsulate myself in your thought and set you in a lucid reverie is far too great, far too grand to simply say that I wish I was on your mind.  I wish for more than that.  I wish to be to your ink when you’re poeming about true love.  I wish to hear my name roll off the tip of your tongue and wish to be the thought in your head when you’re caught in a wanderlust.  This is me, letting my tangled thoughts unfurl onto a screen in eloquent sentences constructed of carefully matched words to form a simple symphony.  This is my heart singing a song specifically written for you, my fingers gliding over keys, orchestrating my muted thoughts and hopes and dreams.  This is me, reaching out for you, banging against the walls of your subconscious mind, crying out let me in!  Set me your dreams so that I can fight away all your fears and plant seeds of love everywhere and let them grow to something you can’t contain anymore.  Take my hand and allow me to lead you to what is called forever more.  Take my hand and walk with me thru the many avenues of love’s complexity.  Take my hand in yours and simply follow me back to my heart.

(via -afallenstar-deactivated2010121)



EKOH:

Tumblr feels kind of like a school to me, and the dash is the lunchroom, or classroom, or the bathroom stall. There’s constant chatter, and I can see each person, and the people they talk with, the friendships and relationships, the new kids and the more experienced ones. The ones with history and the ones who just met. They all speak in their own voices, whether its expression of emotion, a secret scribbled in pen in the bathroom or a questioned asked. Maybe a group task, or a short partnership where people join their minds and words. My tumblr dash is definitely the coolest place to hang out.

PSEUDOPERFECTION:

Tumblr feels like an alternate heaven for me, a safe haven adjacent to to the wooden box where I keep the key to my Summerland. And when I’m not there, in the confines of my sublime escape I fill most of my waking hours musing over how free and easy it is to breathe here. It is my gentle imply of disgust to the loud, the fad and the cheap discourse of the other social networking sites. This place blinds the prying senses of the people who want me fail, the ones who stress what I can’t and leaves no second thoughts in burying the significant things I did and will. Tumblr guarantees me that the people who inspire me with their writings and photographs are just “asks” away and not just settle, dreaming and looking at them like gods far, far from reach. At least I am assured that they aren’t zoombies. Yes, this is a school out of school, learning beyond the conventional. That is why I am in these spaces.

(via cicatricose-deactivated20121009)



PSEUDOPERFECTION:

I’ve been in these clouds for hours, free and breathing. Here I can meet your gaze while conversing, can say what I intend to say and can hold your hands until forever. Though my reign is based on wishful thinking I am living like a king. This place knows no restrictions, no admittance to social symphonies and the normalcy they insinuate to be the just, right and cool. No cliques, no elites, no superstars, no limelight and the million other levels and labels set by some fooly souls. No promises, no lies, no heartbreaks, no time and no space. And by the way don’t call me just yet, I don’t miss the feeling of touching the ground. I won’t be there tomorrow and maybe not anytime soon.

Call me an escapist, a coward and weak. I’ve had enough of those. And baby, did I just mention that I swallow and digest them as compliments, crave for them like my guilty pleasures and worship them as my idols. For it requires one to be weak to see the strength of the strong ones, to be submissive to defeat the powerful. To dwell on the escape they deserve, to revive their weary souls, heavy heart and tortured minds from keeping pace with this so called life and reality.

Stop complaining and take my invitation. I would love to have you here. Sit beside me and throw the worries away. That soft, green meadow, the lovely trees, and the mountains that stretch beyond the horizon are meant for us to to wander and explore. Take my hand, dream this dream with me.

MYELEPHANTINE:

Your words run deep thru my hallow veins, filling the vacant lot of my heart.  I, too, drift upon this meadow and between its trees.  That mountain that stretches, is not far but within my reach.  Memories have filled your cup and drunken you with sorrow, blinding you from reality as your thoughts escape in a dream.  And I meet you here, under clouds, beneath a sycamore tree and lament over your wailing heart.  

You talk of fools and wishes and reveries and I want to reach out to you, I want you for keeps.  But instead, you silence me with your desire to remain suspended in this daydream.  I listen to you speak, chronicling your wants and your needs.  You want me by your side, need my hand in yours and I can’t even conjure a teardrop from this barren soul to vent the pain that’s taking over me.  

Baby, can’t you see that I’m always there with you?  Can’t you feel my cold hand caressing you?  I watch you while you speak and haunt you while you sleep.  I drift silently in your shadows and manifest myself in dreams.  Can’t you see me looking over your shoulder while you shave and brush your teeth?  Can’t you feel me at all?  I can’t take your hand nor your invitation.  You know I can’t.  I’m forever caught in a breeze.  I’ll sit by your bed every night and tearlessy weep because it is I who can’t have you.  It is my invitation I must keep.  I want to have you, take you with me, but I’ve lost my heartbeat.  Here beneath this sycamore tree is where you’ll find me. In my grave, waiting for keeps.