âYour heart knows the things that your mind canât explain.â
â Unknown

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@musettefledoolbeht
âYour heart knows the things that your mind canât explain.â
â Unknown
Let me stay in my shell, donât pull my hand and bring me out. I know I am safe here, even if I am deprived of the sun and the clouds.
Donât hold my hand and say my name, I need no human around. I have been alone. I will breathe alone. I will die alone.
Donât kill me yet. Let me be enough for my own.
Sparkandashes
the heavy air, sultry with late summerâs sun
seeps into the skin, slowing the spirit
to a pace of a soaring hawk,
not on the hunt but riding a current,
sated for the moment
shade trees will be necessary later
but itâs early and the flowers sweet
Define Your Grind
One of the Wolves violently lunged at her, but Krull-afrab growled at him, halting his attempt.
"DAGNY!â From far away, she heard Ra Seamusyeors called out ferociously. âDAGNY!!!â
The Wolves tipped their heads sideways to listen, and after realising it was Ra, they all laughed. Feeling the screws the Wolves put to her, Dagny the Pathwalker laughed as well. If she could only run to her new human guard, but the Wolves' fangs glimmered under the moonlight. It was like going through a thicket of thorns. One misstep or extra tissue, and she would be cut for sure.
- Excerpt from The Pathwalker Trilogy
Book I: The Girl Named Dagny, Chapter 15
Happy Halloween!
Anita the Bonita
Anita the Bonita of the compound, the budding and the fairest of them all, no one could ever forget you or your smooth locks that touched your shoulders. Not even your mouth that only whispered, your brain that only contained happy thoughts. Your gracefulness had captured the hearts of many macho men. And a man had the opportunity to ask for your hand but you were turned off, Anita. My god, by such a petty thing! For that itsy bitsy grain of rice on his cheek. For that teeny weeny grain of mistake, you called the wedding off. For that solitary minute blunder could cause a huge destruction, correct? To yourself, and to the nature of how your children will be raised by such an embarrassing social blunder. But life has its own unique irony. For being too picky, somebody in the dark stole a kiss on your young cheeks. And you didnât even know that bastard. Oh, didnât they say, âmarisiâ? They didnât because you were too charming, not a single soul ever hated you. You were Miss Congeniality. And now to make it worse, your conventional family forced you to get married. Because your cheek has been devirginized. You didnât want to, Anita. You were virtuous but you werenât a rebel. And that man, that kisser had agreed on chopping all the wood and fetching the water only to show you and your mama and papa that he was the appropriate man for you. You were virtuous. You were obedient. So you obeyed to marry him. You taught children on another island. And you had to travel by boat every week to spread literacy and love for nature. But it wasnât hard at all. Wasnât that your passion? Then you gave birth to three daughters, to a son, and to a baby boy who died. That was terrible. But then there were three more daughters so it was not that terrible after all. Life takes something away and gives something instead of what was lost. Life is such a spoiled brat. That kisser became a fine provider of beatings to your children. And became an alcoholic. But he was always right. Because he was the âdisciplinarianâ. All your properties and animals had to be sold so he can drink. But your cash ran out so you begged your family to give something so he can drink. You were the most adored daughter, werenât you? But why did they close the door in your face? Then, your female child, Belinda, got married. But she didnât leave. She stayed with you as not a soul could ever separate her from you. From her source of food. For her, for her baby, and for her husband. It feels amazingly good to have dependents. And your girl, Bernadette. She was intelligent. But you couldnât send her to school. So you asked your sister if she could, please, send your young lady to the university. âShe will do all the laundry for you.â And ding-a-ling-a-ling Another bell rings. Nita, your other Bonita is intelligent, too. But sending her to school was too costly. So you asked your brother if he could, please, help your lassie to go to secondary school. âShe will do all the dishes For you.â Your insides ached to be separated from your kids. âCome back, come back, Reneboy.â You softly prayed for your son to be better. But he was becoming like his father. A prisoner inside a bottle of whiskey. And your other baby, Marjorie. A malnourished child who rolled on the marble floor became blind after 6 oâclock in the evening. But the sum of what you could give her were kisses and tomatoes as a result of what you could afford. You were walking in the rain, soaking wet. And nobody ever shared an umbrella because they liked gaping at you from their windows. But you didnât because, right beside you was your beautiful Cleofe. So you persuaded yourself that they were awed by the sight of her, nay by your misery. You judged yourself on how you and your husband judged your minors except for the last child. She was the sole child who can spit words at you and at him without being punished. Then you judged yourself because you were educated and poised and yet you got an occupation like this. And how your siblings who were always bad, achieved success and prosperity. But you never formed an opinion of them when they merely looked at you getting flushed down the toilet. Because what you remembered were the happy faces of your babies, as you placed the loaf of bread on your empty dining table during Christmas. What you remembered were their excited faces as you opened the can of three sardines for your family of nine. Considering the total of those little things that would make brats stomp their feet, made your offsprings happy, contented, and lucky, because of the fact that you were their parent. You were an eagle thinking you had chickenâs wings . You were educated and finished Biology and English and licensed to teach those subjects as well. But you learned the skill of sorting dried fish by the seashore and selling them to the rich. And so you stayed in that field. And for your choices, for the reasons that what you got. But mostly for the sake of what you lacked, your brothers and sisters laughed at you. The wedding, you said, was never your choice. The guy, you said, was never your love. But how can you stop them from thinking the opposite when he fathered your seven youngsters? Why despite the whole lot of these ill-fated events that happened, it never shortened your patience. Never changed the soft tone of your voice. The tone that could stop a mad brute from hitting his young brood. âNido, stop it,â you gently said. And the terror came to an end. How did you feel then, Anita, when he began to be ill on behalf of abusing his liver? None of us really know. Everything we can remember was that you kneeled in front of your siblings to help you in the middle of your householdâs crisis. You begged and they answered you with a question, âWhy did you join that man?â. And they smirked without waiting for your answer. He died. And the help youâve been waiting for came. But itâs acutely late. Nido canât rise from the dead anymore. Death in the family comes with a reunion. Your older babies went back home. Belinda now had two kids, Bernadette was qualified to be an office secretary, Nita got wedded, and your only son was accepted as a soldier. Every part of them looked cheerful. Shouldnât you be, too, for them? Your second child brought you and your younger minors to a new house on top of the hill. To a place where the sun rose every day similar to new memories. And set every day similar to old ones. To where I recall you waking me up each day, in that, you knew I believed the goodness in watching the sunrise with a hot chocolate in my right hand and a ham sandwich in my left. To where I can still call to mind you sewing dresses for me, packed in a nicely wrapped package, hidden inside my little closet. To where I recollect you making leche flan and a melon shake for me while I was watching the noontime show. To where I can remember you scolding me when I climbed the small tree thatâs hanging on the cliff in front of our house. Where you scolded me for picking your roses, daisies, carnation, and orchids. You scolded me when I beat the banana tree that resembled a punching bag. Rebuked me for captivating the flying ants to the interior of a cassette tape holder. Reprimanded me for revenging at my little cousin when he bit me. But taught me to be more careful for myself To talk to flowers and trees in the interest of their feelings. And that they can also feel pain identical to ours. Much the same as the flying ants. Much the same as the babies. Reproached my older cousin for scaring me Favored me the most over my cousins and sisters. You taught me to no longer hide secrets from my mother no more when I broke the vase. And you instructed my mother to never punish me awfully. Because the cost of the vase is not equal to the cost of my childhood. And for the whole amount of the mischiefs I did, and for any reproofs I get from my aunts and from you, And for each and every crying fit which always led me to slumber, and at all times, I woke up to you wiping away the tears that wetted my temples, my ears, and hair. I almost gave you heart attacks when I nibbled a potentially poisonous bud, when I climbed trees, when I locked the windows and doors. You frantically tried to budge the doorknob open. And you panicked at the sight of me standing on top of the rolling ottoman, trying to reach the kitchen cabinet, purely to eat the sweet and spicy anchovies And you had to hire a handyman so he could break the opening. In the end, I gazed at you in utter wonder and defiance. But you were very patient. You never shouted. Never laid a hand. You admired me for my girlish beauty, for my 5-year-old wits, and for my mischievous attitude just the same. The neighbors declared that my appearance was exactly like yours and you responded to them In Tagalog, with a very funny Visayan accent, âKaya sya pinangalanan ng nanay nyang, Annie.â And at night, when we slept beside each other, when the entire lights are off and everyone was asleep, my imagination playing tricks on me, and I stared at you inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth. Your face turning into a monster. But in the morning, I was, on all occasions, woken up by my fairy godmother, My flower fairy, my old angel, to sit beside her and watch the sunrise. You never had any decent sleep since the day I was born until I turned seven. And you lost more sleep when my parents had to take me away from you. And even though you didnât have any good nightâs sleep, but, every time, you had a good night with me. We cried together, Anita. I exclaimed a childish scream. I chose you over my father and mother. But you convinced me with tears flowing from your eyes. You stated that only my dad can provide for my education. But you havenât convinced me. No more than an inch. And neither have you convinced yourself. But I was merely a child. And grown-ups won each time. The entire summers since then started with joys and ended in tears when I vacationed at the house on top of the hill and had to leave again for school. My joys every bit of summer happened to be lesser. My tears every bit of summer happened to be lesser. I was becoming similar to any adults. Cold-hearted and focused. And for a long while, my vacations to the house on top of the hill became lesser, too. I got lost. And you and the rest of the clan never heard of me. But I came back to the house on top of the hill and observed a brand new sunrise. And both of us made fresh memories while reminiscing the old ones. But my stay was only temporary. And again, the anguish was so bad. But I was already an adult. I learned to ignore separation anxiety. I planned to go back for your birthday. But you died a month and a half earlier. So I had to fly there a month and a half earlier than what was planned. I came back to the house on top of the hill. The footsteps I made was heavier than the usual. Because it is different this time. No more excitement. No longer looking forward to pristine memories with you. I knew that I will be looking back to the old recollections of you. I was sitting again in front of the house on top of the hill. I viewed the sunrise but I wasnât alone. My right arm hugging your ashes, and a hot chocolate in my left. How can someone say, how dare you say that you were never their heroine. When you were completely mine. And in times when I didnât possess parents, you didnât make me believe I needed one.
http://iglovequotes.net/
Monotony
Winding through the eyes and the minds, The lives closed to the uncaring hive, Same old, same old, same old, same old, You see and yet you still do as your are told.
Lucid transparency, knocking doors like a drone, Lunging haphazardly, day to day, always alone.
Dragging your corpse through the dust, Monotony ticks like clocks, as needs must, Time is a juggernaut, never ceasing, Chance for freedom ever decreasing.
Dance the dance of the heavy dark, Chance your arm, to make your mark.
The flesh bound by loving chains gives entrance to warm slippery bliss
If All Baby Boys Were Like You
My messy hair, I hated each rough strand But you said it looked like flowers in a pot So I flaunt it and I feel bold and grand  My sarcastic mouth, it speaks and hurts a lot Yet you adore the sass and always back me up With confidence, I leave regrets to rot  My hips widen and donât seem to stop But you love to grab them with every thrust I leave you clinging to âem while I am on top  I hate my body, hate my pussy, hate my bust Yet you kiss and lick every hole you find You make our love filled with undying lust  I shut down the dark thoughts of my mind But you are awed with its pitch black hue Colorful, you say, I must be color-blind  I wish all baby boys were born like you So all the women would feel perfect, too.
If youâre an introvert, follow @introvertunitesâ.
Spinning, spinning, the colors mesh and bind again to form another weird vision of things that once were and can never be again. For some reason, the things we wish to forget usually are never forgotten and tend to stay with us forever, while we lose the happy memories and only remember the sad times.
theprinceoftworealities,
A novel Iâll never finish.
(via wnq-writers)