Northern Musings

they/he, a writer who dwells on the workings of other writers' minds.

[atinyrome]

Welcome to my tiny account/blog, and every nonsensical attempt I make of putting how I feel into words. This is where I intend to post my pieces, the musings that come to mind every now and then, as well as the journey I take to find all the words in existence.

— Roman

[atinyrome]

You don't have to lie. I understand what you mean when you say, "For old times sake." 

It's, "Let's have fun one more time, for the sake of all the fun we promised but never got to have." "Let's get this shit over with, because we don't have the time to put it off for later anymore." "Hey, don't worry, this doesn't mean I'll barge into your life and pick up on all the ways I kept fucking you over like nothing happened." "Wow, I can't believe this is the first time we're doing something in such a long while." "I missed you."

It's okay, I wouldn't force it either, but I'll take up on your offer.

Sometimes, "For old times sake," can mean just one thing— sometimes, it can be a lot. Like, "Oh, I didn't notice the distance until we stopped sending each other memes at 3 in the morning." "Huh, how did we go from spending each minute together to only talking when special occasions are right around the corner?" "This makes me sad, we were the best of friends, you had parts of my soul I didn't share with anyone else." "I won't take too much of your time, but could you share some of it with me? I miss you."

It could sound cruel, I know, or just downright sad. But what can we do? Our bond had run its course; there's no use squeezing the lone coconut in a desert, no use forcing out the last bits of liquid in this self-made mirage to satiate such drought— no use beating a dead horse. 

So don't say it with shame, I'm more than willing to say "sure" at the slightest implication "for old time's sake." And what I actually mean is, "I feel the same way." "Sometimes I still wake up remembering a plan we never got to do." "I wish we continued being okay together." "I hate how you hurt me but there are nights when I only long to speak to you about our greatest fears." "I don't know how to give others the parts of my soul you gave back when we stopped being friends." 

What I actually mean is, "I miss you too."

[atinyrome]

Schrödinger's People.

They are everyone you face and encounter on a daily basis. They are to be, and not to be, until you've seen for yourself everything they are capable of. Although one lifetime is never really enough to know a person from the inside and out.

They hold numerous jars while simultaneously being Pandora to everyone else. Their hearts contain gifts and inconveniences that no man will ever have hands large enough to gather it all; even palms cupped together will not withstand the entirety that is one human, eventually it will still overflow.

Whether they are dead or alive is not the question this time around. The black and white areas of this universe have long mashed together into a vague yet dominant gray; splattering paint against the blank canvas. The world has long turned its back against the camps of yes and no, only presenting a wide battlefield of maybe for everyone to get lost in, and find themselves at the same time.

Whether they are good or bad is not something we have control over, nor do our minds have the authority to provide judgement that will ultimately define their identities, and how worthy they are to be human. However, we still continue to do so on our own accord, with thoughts powered by morals and preferences and the most trivial things that our judgement could offer.

These people house attractions for the public, introducing a selection that varies: A house of mirrors to the insecure, with every self-deprecating and degradation coming right back at you the moment the words roll off your tongue. A haunted maze hidden deep within where only the brave may enter, those who lack courage will be kept off its grounds. It is the master that deems who is worthy to see the ugly and the bad, and even then, mere humans still won't be able to experience the peak of evil and violent thoughts that rage inside, if the master himself refuses to.

These attractions also house wonders that are not meant for the public, like the never-ending joy of being in Disneyland; laughing until you collapse in tears, creating a memory that will forever remain vivid in your minds as time passes on. And the fluttering feeling of falling in love when you pass the tunnel, or the names you engrave in each lock until it takes up the entire wall. These are wonders that a select few may only ever see, a number that only the master of the park has the rights to list down.

Schrödinger's People is everyone, yet they could also be no one at the very same time. After all, how does one simply say, and with confidence, that they have seen and known every bit that makes up one entire person?

[atinyrome]

I think about lives that aren't mine. Call it yearning, sentiment, desire, empathy, longing, understanding— the kind of homesickness that does not belong to any house or moment you've ever experienced. It's inexplicable, and yet it's also every word and sentiment there is to conjure.

I am a boy in the middle of the city; but at the same time I am a girl learning how to fly a kite in the park as my dad hangs back with my mom by the picnic bench, I hear her say don't go too far, I hear him say it's fine, let her be. We will go for ice cream when it's time to go home, because my mom is a sucker for my smile and my dad's youthful charm— we will convince her with the good promise of behaving so she doesn't nag at the amount of sugar I've had today, and I will proceed in burning out the sweet sweet rush of life before falling asleep in either one of their arms. 

I am alone in my room on a Saturday; but at the same time I am a teenager walking with my friends by the beach, picking at the nicest looking stones and shells and writing names on sand that the waves washed away. We will sit on the stones when it's sundown just to see the water turn from blue to orange to black, stories of everything and nothing echoing once another like we are waves of our own, varying in frequency and experiences and oceans and sand and sunsets inside us.

I am a guy trying bowling for the first time at the age of 25; but at the same time I am a seasoned veteran in war, I've seen chaos and bloodshed on the field and the thought of death no longer fazes me, I hear depression and trauma at night and the idea of making it out alive no longer excites me. I have died multiple times in battle in the form of bullets to my comrades' chests, exploded time and time again as my best friend steps on a landmine, there is nothing of me left even when I am met by my family when the war is finally done. I have long traded life for being a hero that only rewards me with nightmares in my sleep.

It's weird enough that I am ultimately just someone inside four walls, but the happiness and warmth and ache that I feel always seem to betray that fact. Like I am more human than my limbs and sweat combined— how is it possible to feel this much with just one body?

[atinyrome]

I like to believe that we are not truly alone, not in the metaphorical or physical or mental sense; that's for poetry and fuck buddies and illnesses. No, this one is something unfathomable with a weight that will overwhelm you time and time again.

Think of it as a prophecy or fate or curse, the divided opinion for it would be helpful or damning or something we can just coexist with, no big deal— but I think this phenomenon is far more larger than life, than all of us, and especially the ones who came before. This one is something that has always been in motion and occurring and being predetermined right under our very noses.

If you asked me, I'd say we were destined to be parts of a whole, like puzzle pieces and cogs and building blocks all put together to create something beautiful. Our bodies had existed way before consciousness and souls and its particles were carefully picked out from dying stars and multiple supernovas. The way our bodies knew each other before we met had always reinforced the chances that we'd already known each other before our celestial wonder had been broken off, and that the universe had just paid its dues by bringing you back to me.

So if you told me we're soulmates or partners or lovers, I'd believe you, truly, genuinely, but I draw the line when you say I'm the only one for you and you're the only one for me and we're no one to anyone else. This quantum entanglement had decided we are both part of something whole and long-lasting and special and that doesn't have to mean you have to stick by my flaws and shortcomings and mistakes just because of it— this love, if I may bravely so call it that— it belongs to us, but it will belong to you and them and me and her and him and us, just as the dying stars and multiple supernovas had intended when they scattered all over the universe to help create our existence.

We don't have to dwell on that fact now. We can just focus on the way you and I and this invisible string tying us together no matter the oceans and land between us seem to be the only things that matter, because it's true. Timed as it is, this love did still bring me to you.

[atinyrome]

"But then it passed, as all things do."

It’s a mantra. It’s a charm. It’s a lifeline, even, for the weary and the damned. It’s the aftermath of deepest sighs and darkest shadows when it sweeps you away from right where you’re standing— No heads up, no warnings. Just the feeling of a complete blackhole sucking the life of you from the insides. It hasn't been a minute since you've woken up from that hellish experience, but here you are already clawing at the walls just so you can climb your way outside the scene of the crime. Desperate to get up and present yourself to the world in one piece even if it meant you were unscathed in the front, utterly scarred and bloody in the back.

And when it passes, it's as all things do. It's a promise. You don't know whose, but you feel like believing it anyway, eager to hold onto some light in the midst of all this pitch blackness. Each scene replays in your mind; all the times you've made it out alive, all the moments you were sure you wouldn't survive. And yet you've made it out to the other end each time like an unstoppable force crashing through life's immovable objects. You think, sometimes the very lighthouse you're looking for as you battle the harsh waters and harsher storms is the one you've had with you all along— yourself. It doesn't initially sound like a good thing, but it isn't looking to be a bad thing either.

Because it did pass, as all things do. Wear it with pride, smile wide, think about how the air is lighter on the other side. It's a rollercoaster world full of turns and loops, and the ups and downs you ride through may make you, and break you, but it will never amount to what defines you— and all that poetic shit people hold onto. It doesn't have to be the weight on your back that hinders you from being who you wanted to be before the very first tragedy came knocking at the gates of your soul. What seemed like a never-ending crisis doesn't have to feel that way forever, because it passes, as all things do. And while it happens, sometimes all we can do with what we have is make do.

[atinyrome]

musing. (note: please click on the underlined sentences in order to be redirected to another page containing my work, or feel free to just scroll through my blog if you prefer doing so.)

How do I write? It is a common question that I hear from other people I talk within the communities I stay at and share my pieces with. Most times, I suffer from finding the proper words to answer it in a manner that does not come off as either arrogant or boastful. On the rare occasions that I do get to reply, it is usually just me casually laying out what the inspiration for my most recent piece was. And for someone as sentimental, verbose, and too-deep-in-my-mind as me, there are a lot of factors while simultaneously none at all.

Music. Music plays a big part in my life. It is one of the things that keep me going, if I may frankly say so. It is one of the intangible things that give me life and bring me feelings I would never be able to feel alone. (The tangible ones are my friends. I love them more than I love my very being.) And a lot of my works have been a result of a certain feeling that has dwelt in the depths of my soul for a good amount of time. A piece of mine that had been inspired by music would be this.

Sentence Prompts. Usually, one profound line or theme from some random place in the internet, a friend, or a mentor, is enough to fuel my drive to write. As if my reflexes were to whip out a piece of pen and paper, or my phone, and immediately let my mind run off to who knows where and gather every thought it can come up with. Most of the time, these are what I write about. Random statements from people, or snippets of conversations from a film. A piece of mine that had been inspired by prompts would be this. Or this. Or this.

Books.  Have I already mentioned that I love books? Well, this is the part where I mention them again. I admit that I do prefer reading over watching a story and its events unfold-- (unless it’s anime, for some reason anime just sits beside books when it comes the ranking of my preferences) and of course they have been the source of my writing for multiple times already. A piece of mine that had been inspired by a book I really love would be this. 

Overthinking. Ever have those moments where you really identify with a character from a story? Or just admire them so much you really find yourself thinking about them a lot? Well. I go through that a lot. A piece of mine that had been inspired by me overthinking a character would be this. 

And lastly, existentialism. I do have a habit and love for dwelling on the idea of our existence quite a lot. More often than I could possible wish to do, and less than I could possible get enough of. I don’t know. There is just so much to life and grievance and unhappiness that remains an uncharted territory for most of us humans. And I have never really completely understood why they are so against the idea of pain, when it is part of existing. It is a recurring theme in my pieces that I often mix with other prompts to encourage myself to write. A piece of mine that had been inspired by this feeling would be this. Or this. Or this. 

— Marytonie

[atinyrome]

nine —  “And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world, That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting. It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.” (Kait Rokowski, A Good Day)

It is not that hard to forget your bedroom is not the world. Especially in times where you muscles refuse to cooperate and your brain is too awake for your liking, on nights where the dark cloud overhead turns into a shroud of black, keeping you inside your own little world of misery until it disintegrates into nothingness, on days where it's pouring hard and the thought of rainbows and clear skies at its end isn't appealing at all.

It is not that hard to fall into the spiraling hole of loathe and depreciation at the same time you crawl in on yourself on the floor. Especially in times where the heavy weight of your world makes you feel like Atlas, on nights where the sun is a despicable force at rest, and all you want is for Apollo to take the next few days off, on days where everything seems to put you in Oedipus' predicament as he rolls the boulder upward over and over, in repeat, while the odds of making it out diminishes at an amazing speed.

It is not that hard to get too acquainted with the unhappy. Especially in times where it's the one consistent feeling that keeps you company in all your waking hours, on nights where the dark and quiet are your only friends and the deafening silence gives you more peace than it normally would, on days where the lights are too blinding as it looms over the world, and you close your eyes too much you unexpectedly find comfort in them, along with the thought that even for a little while you get to take back the darkness from a couple hours ago.

How tragic is it to have too much grief in your soul, it begins to take over your very being. And that you only see semblances of hope and joy by the time you've already made your bed in that dark place, so they just turn into the very things you no longer want in your life anymore.

[atinyrome]

eight — musing.

What is it with us humans and our need for holding onto nearly breaking threads? What is it with us humans and our hunger for a love that we can never seem to have? What is it with us humans and the fragility of our feelings? What is it with us humans and the never-ending building and wrecking of walls?

Why are we programmed with a sturdy memory chip that enables us to remember the ruins of the relationship we failed to save in complete detail? Is it because the bits and pieces hold a lot more than we ought to know? Is it because the remnants of our failure serve as an aching reminder that despite everything that goes on, we are still humans— through and through?

Maybe that is the case, for us and the billions of other people in the world. We were never meant for perfection anyway. Every one of us were bound to come with our own set of flaws that highly contradict our attractive aspects.

That's just how it is. I suppose that's just how life is.

And it's okay.

We'll just have to handle each bond with utmost care while it hasn't completely broken yet, deal with the fact that there will always be a void inside us that no amount of life could fill, keep our hearts in check and live with the never-ending fluctuation of feelings, put up with the reality that you will have to do this in repetition— stuck in a cycle of making and breaking, of people coming and leaving, knowing full well that they are things that are bound to happen a lot of times in our existence.

We'll just have to weather ourselves past one shit-storm of emotions after the other.

And we'll be okay. 

[atinyrome]

seven — musing.

Our existence is just a speck among the ceaseless and ever growing universe. With that said— it makes it so easy to get lost in the wonder of it all; inside our minds, where we are the only ones who possess the key to accessing it, or in the world outside our own, where we encounter people that we never give much thought of at first glance. After all, it isn't so often that we pass by strangers and immediately process the fact that they have their own stream of consciousness— The fact that we are not so special in that sense usually goes overlooked.

It is so easy to drown in the questions of why we are here, and every day is always a struggle to find our own truth to that skepticism— and yet, a lifetime will never be enough for mere humans to reach absolute truth. It is the biggest hurdle of the universe, the highest mountain to exist, the ultimate question for all.

Our existence is small, but even the tiniest dots are capable of leading to a masterpiece.

If it were any other person, that would sound really inspiring. A phrase that makes one think less of the nothingness that life holds? Who wouldn't want that? Others would feel the littlest of sparks ignite deep inside their soul, and maybe— giving them something new to look forward to. It's one of the few niceties that help people get through life; letting people hope.

That— is if it were any other person, of course. People who are used to the darker hues that color one's existence wouldn't bat an eye at that statement, some would even scoff at the remark and label it pretentious. There is just so much that happens in a lifetime where someone ends up actually losing sight of the bigger picture— and that shouldn't be something we use to hold against someone. We have no right to stop them from doing it; let people hurt.

I've always had this thought about our existence being insignificance in depth— as ironic as that sounds, but then again, what's a life without a little bit of comedy?

[atinyrome]

six — “I got to thinking that poems were like people. Some people you got right off the bat. Some people you just didn’t get–– and never would get.” (Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe)

I could use every word related to mysterious and it still would not be able to capture how hard it is to grasp the concept of you.

𝐶𝑟𝑦𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑐. Everything that leaves your lips might as well be a riddle, or a metaphor of some sort. The speed of how you change the figurative devices in your words resemble a metronome. Always fluctuating in a pace I could never catch up to, no matter how hard I tried. Sometimes, even the noises you make end up confusing me; the laughter that bubbles out your throat when the smile does not even reach your eyes, the huffs that seem too playful to be considered angry. You keep on leaving me puzzled, but I will gladly take on every challenge if it means more of you.

𝐴𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑜𝑢𝑠. Actions speak louder than words, but it is also capable of sending mixed signals. These are signs that not even my years as a self-proclaimed smooth sailor could identify. It is always a question that merely requires a simple yes, or no. A question whose answer will always be found in either side of what is, or what isn't— but I should have known that amidst the black and white world, someone like you will exist. Someone who stays in the gray area. It has given me skepticism each time I look at my compass, having learned that an arrow pointing upwards does not always mean I have found true north.

𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑥𝑖𝑛𝑔. The nagging at the back of my head is there again, like an itch that I could never quite satisfy. Continuously, I am vexed by the idea of you that I have only made up in my mind, as I am aware of how it clashes with the you that walks upon this land. However, it is not entirely just a figment of my imagination; I could only make you up using the little things you hand over and leave behind. Could you really say I have started admiring a different version of you, knowing that? Or would that just be an addition? I decided I do not mind. After all, I could never be satisfied with just one part of you— if I started truly wanting you for myself, that is. Mayhaps I'll start pondering on the thought of whether you'd let me have all of you, instead.

𝐼𝑛𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒. I have seen people strip off their armour under my gaze; it is a power I have began to wield a while back, but have seldom put it to use. A method proven true by the majority which helps you avoid getting tricked— includes fixing your stare into someone's eyes as you speak to them, it made the truth come out. And yet you have exempted yourself from such display of vulnerability. The walls you have built for yourself fascinate me in ways I cannot express, it has stood there far too longer than you let on, I know that much. Believe when I say I have no intentions on breaking them down by force, for I may only succeed in entering these massive barricades if you let me in by choice. Until then, I will patiently admire the old engravings that bear the story you have chosen to tell.

There are a lot of people that I could easily define with words that belong to a specific concept; pretty, tough, inspiring, despicable— some would even count for simply normal. But not you, no. Certainly never you, and I wouldn't have you any other way.

Note: This is something to commemorate the day of when Aristotle and Dante met. The 15th of June, in the year 1987. This book means a lot to me, since not only has it made me feel a lot— it also gained me a friend.

Additional note: The pictures attached are “Nighthawks” by Edward Hopper, and “The Raft of the Medusa” by Théodore Géricault, both of which are Dante and Aristotle's favorite paintings, respectively.

[atinyrome]

musing.

I'm always, always down for talking about life and death. Except the only reason why I refrain from doing so is how it's usually viewed as some sort of Debbie Downer moment, so I resort to writing about it and alas, I have me an outlet for every existential crisis and wonder that goes through my mind.

Life eventually becomes extremely jaded for a lot, especially after decades of going with the flow of living and surviving. I'm no exception to that experience— and yet words continue to set off the tiniest of sparks inside of my very being. I could wax poetry about how it's just so, so amazing for hours on end— and it still won't be enough to capture my admiration for everything that exists, how it exists, and why it exists.

There is an absolute truth that everyone seeks for the entirety of their lives, so I've heard.

I still don't know what's mine for sure, but if I could decide it for myself it would be something like learning the truth behind wielding the power of words. Of how one is able to leave marks and set standards in a way that only involves writing, of how articulating what you feel without leaving a minuscule of your heart hidden from everyone who will want to see, of capturing every thought that has successfully intertwined with each other in the corners of your mind and untangling the mess to lay each thread bare.

It's just. Freaking amazing.

[atinyrome]

five — the prompt; a 300-word story

Goat Chase

A disadvantage of being a heavy sleeper is that you cannot wake up on your own. Some people could just will themselves to wake up and viola, awake they are. That would be nice, except I cannot. My subconscious is also aware of what’s going on around me half the time, and they often transform into scary things in my dreams.

Bangungots are the worst to deal with if you’re someone like me, and I often experience them because the elders in my village say I always eat a lot.

Right now I am watching a goat being chased-- and I feel myself run out of breath with every passing moment. I feel sweaty all over and a door creaks not too far from where I stand-- only I don’t really know where I am, but there is a looming force that makes up most of the terrifying ambiance of the place.

This has been going on for a while now. I can’t really tell. Another thud goes off to my right-- wait, was that window there before? The goat runs in circles around me. I can’t tell what’s chasing the poor livestock, each time I try to look at it I feel anxiety spike up inside me. It goes on and on, as if I’m in a never-ending cycle of spectating.

I try to keep my vision straight. In the next moment I am met with the cold splash of water, and I wake up. Upon look around I see my limbs restrained. The aching of my body overpowers the awful dream. I remember where I am. All I feel is fear, fear, and fear.

This… is a nightmare I cannot wake up from.

[atinyrome]

four — a long analysis on Alexander and Eliza in Hamilton: The Musical

Alexander Hamilton's character is so complex. There's never really knowing what it will take for him to finally reach a level of content; of relaxation and security regarding his place in the world, and yet it's understandable. His hunger for doing something significant in the world had been one of the main concepts in the musical— it wouldn't be a stretch to say it isn't too far from the truth either. It's easy to over-complicate it and say he needs to take a chill pill. And yet, it's understandable.

He's spent majority of his childhood thinking all there was to his life was getting through each day, barely hanging onto the skin of his teeth. Going through so much devastation at such a young age leaves indefinite scars on people. Alexander went through a whole lot of it, to the point where his *self-preservation has completely disintegrated. Those experiences of his became a huge factor as to why his perception of himself and his value has been reduced to nothing. He wasn't capable of losing anything else anymore, so what was there to keep going for?

Until his second chance at having a life worth of something appears; he's given the chance to start anew in New York, and he aims to do exactly just that, which he actually did. His mind helped him get there. If it weren't for his intellect and brilliance, he would have spent the rest of his life thinking he would never **live past the age of twenty. Of course it's only natural that he relies on it a little too much— to an extremely unhealthy extent (or as Eliza had said, it became an obsession).

And then enters Eliza, the woman who Understands™. There's always been a little distinction between her and Angelica in terms of how Alexander attracted them, I guess. Angelica loved Alexander for his mind, while Eliza loved Alexander despite his mind. The difference is little, but the impact is massive.

Still, the part of Alexander that is unknowable remains unknowable. No one really understands this at first, and for one too many times he's been told to take a break by the people around him, Eliza as well. For everyone else, Alexander is a force to be reckoned with, fueled by his hunger to die being something, to be while he hasn't died yet. No one completely grasps what goes on in Alexander's mind. Everyone else has stopped trying to find out and carried on with their lives after some time.

Save for Eliza. She stops trying to figure out why Alexander is the way he is, instead she starts accepting the fact that she will never understand that part of him that yearns for so much. The first two pictures completely capture this certain aspect of their relationship.

And it just gets me each time. Those lines. It perfectly captures how Alexander will always have that desire inside of him, and Eliza understands that she will never understand how it feels— Which brings me back to what I said earlier: Eliza chose to love Alexander despite of his mind.

The three pictures that follow are a couple more references to Alexander's hunger. There's Eliza in That Would be Enough who acknowledges Alexander's complexity, and subtly resigns to the fact that she will always come second to this massive part of him. It sucks. It's completely different to the kind of love everyone has come to know. It wasn't supposed to be this powerless. It was supposed to conquer and all that. Then again, love comes in different forms for different people. It just so happened that this was how Alexander loved Eliza: by giving her the parts of him that he's grown to love and be confident about, strictly keeping the shameful pieces hidden until he's proven them worthy to be seen. Completely blinded by making himself worthy to the point that the idea of someone loving him despite the imperfections sounds so impossible— And this was how Eliza loved Alexander.

Then comes Angelica in Burn, who knows Alexander will never be satisfied with just being, in that time period. This makes her a lot more careful than Eliza, and it makes sense because Eliza married Alexander, not Angelica. She probably could have been in too deep, but she didn't. Judging by her character, she would have drawn the line where it's necessary. A far cry to Eliza's forgiving and understanding nature.

The last goes back to Eliza (still during Burn). And even with everything that Alexander has done up to that point, she doesn't sneer and spit venom at his "obsession," she only says these words from a place of hurt. Sure, no one really knows how she felt at that time, nor will we ever find out, but the musical version of their characters turned out like this. And it's just so freaking amazing.

I'm done geeking out. Do what you will with this, if you ever read it up until the end.

—

*Self-preservation refers to Alexander's line about Aaron Burr in Ten Things, One Thing: “I never had his instinct for self-preservation.” **Live past the age of twenty in My Shot: “See, I never thought I’d live past twenty.”

[atinyrome]

three — the prompt; Free Verse Poem

to the life that I had once imagined, I am not sure if we'll ever meet at all

you must be wondering, "where did all the enthusiasm over living alone go?" over every cat that I had planned to adopt or each trip I planned to make my own most of them are gone now, neatly stored into a box tucked away to a place I will not be touching at least not in a few years or so

to the life I had once imagined I'm afraid to say you'll have to wait for a while

the daydreams about staying in the library nose buried deep in stories you can see in each page; of retellings of brawls, kings and queens, humanity meeting their doom or the fantasy of train rides on the way home sharing spaces with hearts beating to their own rhythms perhaps I'm glorifying the mundane too much but my imagination for greener grass is all I have— a place where I get to control how my life works, albeit being its own kind of exhausting

to the life I had once imagined you go on ahead, I'll stay behind for a while

I will continue to look with starry-eyes and an open mind at the whole image of college, and every class I will attend that enables me to dive into more and more literature it truly was the dream, and it still will be for a long time to wake up and attend classes even when I look dead facing the stress that comes with it would be a piece of cake; a cake I intend to savour for the entire duration of my stay because nothing quite beats the delight of doing what you love— as hard as it could possibly get

to the life I had once imagined we'll see each other eventually

I'm sure we will, once the world deems me deserving of such life for now, I'll have to focus on making my way through living past tomorrow for now, I'll have to figure out how being an adult works for now, I'll have to keep my gaze upon the family I'd been born into for now, I'll have to let go of the life I very much yearned to reach for the rubble of what once was the tower of my dreams will remain in place messy and chaotic, always there for me to stand in and visit I won't get to build it back up immediately, but I don't plan on clearing it away either

to the life I had once imagined if we ever still meet, I hope you don't forget about me

[atinyrome]

two — the prompt; a reminder that feeling things do not make you any less human. 

We're meant to feel things. It's programmed inside us. Feeling things for yourself, and for others, do not always mean to be a hindrance to who you are as a person. Let yourself feel. The reason for this is a nagging thought I've had for the past few days. I've seem people claim that "softness" always seems to be detrimental and has been considered a sign of weakness. 

News flash: it isn't. And it should stop seeming like it to the majority.

It is time to erase the misconceptions About how abstract feelings are a weak force For they hold tenfold the potential That aids an injured soldier through the worst

Empathy is the nurse that tends to your wounds When your limbs are too faint to reach out It is the helping hand that holds onto you gently With a touch so soft, and care so loud

Compassion is the friend you turn to When the world seems to be on your shoulders It lends a good amount of strength Until you're back to pushing back life's boulders

Hope is the sweet child of summer Reminding you of the good that will come Akin to a lighthouse one can see along the dark horizon Ceaselessly turning for the ships sailing home

Love is the force that reigns supreme The puppeteer that controls everyone in the place It is the ruler of all things whose biggest aim Is giving you back even the tiniest smile for your face

Abstract feelings can be so peculiar And can rarely be visible to the naked eye But in storms of the unfamiliar, they've helped lots persevere And inside everyone's hearts that may waver, they refuse to die 

[atinyrome]

one — “'Cause everything will start again anew, ‘cause everything just goes away my friend. And every king knows it to be true, that every kingdom must one day come to an end.” (Ben Howard, Everything)

Ash in the sea, dust in the wind. Remnants and rubble will cease to exist, along with everything it once had been. Time will carry on, space will still expand. Science voids anything that may be of effect by what we had.

From specks that form life, to mountains of death; a jagged path awaits for everyone to tread. Jests for royalties, tears for the morose. Feelings to be handled with care are preserved akin the Beast's magic rose.

The beginning and the end, the old and the new. Along time it fades, what vanishes were once true. Memories of youth, for the aged are achievements. Things that seemed permanent will eventually be gone in the present.

Walls stripped bare, paint that have thinned. Rewriting something seems to take great effort, but sometimes it's easy to build. On lands that have wasted away, and rivers that have run dry. Sprouts eventually pop up, and water refills when the skies cry.

Indifference about loss grounds people aplenty, countless of opposites retain the irony of it all. Feelings strapped humanity firmly in its seat, and cycles of life has kept the world going for centuries far too many.

Rhythm and rhyme keeps the people dreaming with paintings and poetry served for their hearts to consume. Reality reaches a state of balance before everything is hurled, and the slate is wiped over and over as the world starts yet again to turn.