edelweiss

an abyss of nonsensical musings

[literarygoof]

i am afraid i am really beginning to believe that there is no point to all of this. that everything is just an endless cycle that grows and dies and births itself time and again. i am afraid that i can only see nothing when i look at the future. i am afraid that i am slowly becoming so accepting of the thought that i might not stay longer

[literarygoof]

I've been thinking about death a lot

[literarygoof]

i am ashamed to admit that despite all of my disbelief and stubbornness, i still long for someone to love me. i want to experience such tenderness and be bathed in its light. i want to be known even when i try to hide, to be heard even when i do not have the power to speak at times. it is true that i believe that i am a little difficult to love, that i can be messy and cruel and indecisive and doubtful. that i do not deserve something good. but deep down, i still think i can be good. i still think i am good. i just want someone to see me for who and what i am and still be thought as worth loving. i pretend that i am indifferent to romance, and perhaps sometimes i really am. but there are times when something beautiful and breaking happens to me, and i turn around to share it to someone and there is just no one there, then all i have is myself and the enduring silence that has followed me all my life. i want someone to be there. people often say that romantic love comes when we stop trying to find it, or that love is not a loss if i can find it in friends and family. it's true that love presents itself in various ways, but if love has consistently failed to show up for me in the way it has showed up naturally for others, then i think it is justified for me to grieve something that others experience naturally at least once in their life. to love and be loved would be so humanly beautiful. despite all of my miseries, my heart quietly yearns for it :`)

[literarygoof]

You are my ache, my joy, and my sorrow all at once. You are everything I want and everything I cannot have.

[literarygoof]

god i wanna disappear from everyone

[literarygoof]

you would rise before the light even came out, watching the dim earth slowly brighten with the arrival of a bleeding sun. sometimes i'd wake to find you there, gazing out into an unraveling world long before the air even learned its name.

i wonder if you were waiting for something this world cannot ever give—that if I stood long enough beside you, i'd understand how you think. i wish that i had lingered, that i had asked you more questions instead of fading into sleep. but now the world wakes without you in it, and the light falls cruelly just the same. softly it lays itself down like an offering, gently it touches the walls, touches the skin—and still i shiver. you can bury a body but their soul finds a way to remain, for what is love if not the pressing weight of what has been missing? and so i wonder if you are here somewhere between the dust motes and the silence. are you somewhere inside the light itself?

and i could polish my litanies to make it ache a little softer but grief is not something i can simply bargain with god—to rid myself of it is to rid what makes my heart a heart. to forsake the ache is to gut the house of its walls, to forget the hands that once patiently held me—and call it mercy. but I do not want this kind of mercy. so let it stay and let it gnaw. let it carve me into something worthy of having loved you at all.

[kosmogrl]

[literarygoof]

and perhaps we find it hard to write because it requires utmost confrontation and shameless undressing, while there is too much security in containment. you have grown to revel in the calmness of your melancholy, as though the absence of your words means the absence of chaos while something unnamed faithfully ravages you from the inside. you think that to entertain one shadow of terror is to summon the darkness itself—which might also mean to say that you do not know how to shine without setting yourself on fire.

what is writing if not the insatiable need to pry open a healing wound? it demands a brutal honesty, forces the heart to work up the courage to see the ugliness for what it is, and it exhausts the mind by its attempts to make sense of the pain, devoting hours on analyzing each terrible thing you did to deserve such reparations. and so you try to hide in metaphors both too abstract and sometimes too pretentious because you are too full of love and too full of rage—too full of things you could never say.

[literarygoof]

if we are granted a life outside of this one, i hope I never get to meet you. somewhere in this universe, there is a world where i am not waiting. somewhere, my tongue will not recognize the shape of your name nor will my eyes remember how your hair burns like fire under the sun. my ears will not recall the melody of your breath, nor will my pen carve repetitions of you. my words will flow freely, no longer tethered to the echoes of your name.

there will be a life where you don’t exist in mine, and I, in yours. the world will be big enough for you and i.

[kosmogrl]

[heartdesiresss]

All I want is someone to know me so deeply, like nobody ever has.

[ehwprasinamatia]

And love me anyways

[literarygoof]

you are not afraid of being forgotten. you are no stranger to the tongues that never bothered learning how to say your name. you just want to slip quietly through the edges, never lingering too long in the world. you can run from yourself yet even death leaves no room for escape: the body you abandon imprisons the remains of your decaying soul.

you will leave in the same way you entered the world: all bloodied skin and folded hands, only this time you are no longer innocent. you can rot into the bones of the earth, believing that you can hide your way into eternity but flowers will grow between your ribs and the world will give you a name. rest in peace, they will say, while they parade your bones on display.

you have faded away but still, you are speaking. raven-haired delilah from long ago, you leave the kind of loneliness that even heaven could not hold.

[literarygoof]

beyond your reach, child,

lies the dome where your gods play

where all burns and all ends,

where all is but a graveyard of eternal decay.

you, with your ancient bravado

and your icarian reveries,

would burn your tongue and kiss

the sun just to feel that you exist

but down here, child,

lies the world where you belong:

celestial blinking, earthly dreaming,

in prairies wild and oceans blue,

heavens crying, lovers dancing

to the great replay of your father's old tunes.

here is little atlas, with his hands so small,

holding up the weight of the cosmic call.

here lies glory, here lies debt

here is life, here is death.

[literarygoof]

A body is a memorial to things we never dare forget. From the expanse of the shoulders to the intricacies of the thighs, to rearrange its bones and make it a pyre of something holy. In the crooks of our bodies, we build our own temples. On the lips of our beloved, we exchange a hundred prayers.

[literarygoof]

here in the fathomless black, you plead all the litanies your heart can pull: for there to be hope in the light of distant worlds, for tenderness to be waiting on the morrow. to sleep and wake as no more than a fistful of dust, to live no more like a prey ravishing on sorrow.

[literarygoof]

In a dream, I am laughing with you under the kindness of the afternoon sun. We hold hands and you talk to me about your wonders and your joys, and I do not hesitate to tell you that you are one of mine.

In that dream we are both honest and brave, tender and unafraid. In that dream, I love you, and I am loved back without shame. In a world beyond this one, we defy everything we have ever known. I do not plead for any litanies except for a world where I don't have to worry about missing you for I am always with you.

In that dream I love you, and in this life I really do.

In that dream, you tell me you love me, but in this life, you never do.

[literarygoof]

There are some things that are too raw to be surrendered into admission. To be vulnerable is to invite the witnessing of a monumental breaking–a near act of summoning another's scrutiny to the wreckage. Old wounds do not take the face of a freshly cut flesh but it nonetheless indicates the pouring of a blood that was once there. We do not dare speak of how hard it is to mourn alone for things that most people consider as alive, or to yearn for a touch that is just a few breaths away. I craft eulogies for people who have never been dead; my longing makes the brain funny that way. The shame eventually crawls but you cannot outrun it even in its slowness; it is the price you pay for being honest.

In the weight of pain, we vow to preserve what is left of our secrecy, but love has always made honest men out of us. Watch how the words fall from the gates of your tongue, both the hesitance and the slow surrender. Watch how they tumble and flow from the safety of the stream and into the waiting arms of the ocean. You could only hope you do not lose what you cherish. You could only hope you do not drown what you love.

Sometimes I am told by the poets that hope is found by looking at the sun, and I find comfort in believing them. But sometimes, the sun is just the sun, and hope is a thing buried in the marrow. I have never been good at unearthing what refuses to be shown, but I may have honed patience in the art of waiting for them to unravel. I have lived long enough to know that the calloused palms can sometimes be the gentlest, and those with immaculate hands can have the most evil hold. I know that a whole life can fade into dreams that become half-remembered–how the absence of something is proof that it existed because we long for it. There are certain truths that we all share but they are lodged in the silence of the waning light, and we do not dare speak of it. Still we rise. Still we remain.

Tonight is for falling asleep, and we fall asleep, not knowing.