of paper owls, peach blossoms and poetry

soar, avecilla!

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 16.

Longing.

It’s a simple, boring word yet it spans a vast array of feelings—desire, hunger, hope, aspiration, melancholy. It is often hushed, acknowledged only behind closed doors, and with each and every moment it spends hidden, it burns as an invisible catastrophe.

Longing.

It’s a restless, lasting, often wistful need for something, someone, unattainable. It’s as gray as asphalt, equally rough, jagged and cutting as its reflective cracks. It is earnest and deep, profound and engulfing as the ocean.

Longing.

It’s a tragedy, when one is enraptured by longing. For like its sisters, grief and anger, it too, has an iron grip, similarly unrelenting and unforgiving. It is subtle, a master of concealment in shadowed blues, surfacing only during the least expected moments and striking like the most venomous viper.

But you aren’t spellbound by it, are you, avecilla?

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 15.

Anger.

It’s so easy to tell another to forgo anger, when its nasty, ugly claws aren’t clasped around your neck, when it isn’t rooted deep within your bones, piping hot and robbing you of reason. Those on the bylines can simply quip words of shallow concern, oblivious to the agony of its victims burned at its wake.

Anger.

It’s as intense as a roaring fire, consuming and devastating all the same. It is blinding, numbing, except for the sheer violence, the desperation of wanting to be rid off that antagonism. Then it projects itself as an outburst, an altercation, and at worst, an exchange of blows that leaves stark red blotches staining the debris of an inanimate witness, as vivid as its feeling.

Anger.

It’s a response aroused from unjust behavior, fueled by the lack of accountability from the catalyst. More often than not, the trigger gets overlooked by the collateral damage brought about by indignation—a never-ending sequence. Unless there is genuine desire to understand its underlying cause, the tragedy continues.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 14.

Grief.

It’s a curious little thing, isn’t it? On some days, it’s a soft whisper, barely audible amidst the diurnal cacophony—then suddenly it’s an iron grip that strangles right at the throat, knocks the air violently out of one’s lungs. It bludgeons without warning, unrelenting and exasperatedly unpredictable.

Grief.

It’s an enigmatic abyss—a phenomenal paradox, being so profound yet easily understandable all the same. It’s intangible, with a force that is very much tangible. It’s invisible, sometimes visible through dark circles around the eyes and an unkempt appearance, a blank look and shaking hands. Sometimes, visible through a spotless ensemble of fashionable apparel, a snappy gait and a bright smile.

Grief.

It’s the price we pay for love. For grief only ever persists where there once was love, equally consuming as the flames that once were, ticklish butterflies traded for crippling stomach pain.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 14.

Laom.

Perhaps it’s juvenile idealism—wishful thinking of sunshine after a thunderstorm, or the flimsy promise of distant stars against the black canvass of the night sky. Perhaps it’s the presence of candlelight in a dark room, which may be fickle yet provides enough light all the same.

Laom.

Loosely translated, it is hope; anticipation for something, often positive. It is a curious feeling, one that exists and continually persists, regardless of how pessimists say otherwise. It has fueled societal resilience throughout time, the expectation of something worthwhile after overcoming obstacles, foolishly high like an opium overdose.

Laom.

It’s a beautiful, tragic, yet altogether noble emotion. For the departed have only ever braved death with the hope of certain peace that comes after. Perhaps it’s the truth—no, that is the truth; and in that truth, I too, shall press on, tread on troubled waters.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 12.

I love you, for you look past the seemingly never ending clouds of gray lingering about me; for you never cease to believe that despite all the chaos and madness, there exists a calm and peace, beauty, in me. I love you, for you offer me safety, security, seeing past the facade of strength and independence I wear. I love you, for you respect my person, and love me as I am.

And I love you as the kindest, bravest soul that you are. I love all your quirks and antics, the many wonderful things that make you as you. I would love to spend the rest of my life with you.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 11.

Serendipity—a phenomenon, a rarity of occasion where things are agreeable, valuable, despite not being sought. Some call it fate, others call it destiny. Whichever the case, our fated meeting continues to bewilder me. I am bewitched, helpless as the tides drawn by the celestial moon.

Delicate and beautiful as a snowflake, I wish to protect you, us, with all my might. For you are, without a shadow of doubt, my favorite serendipity.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 10.

And just like time, you passed me by. I often mused on the countless possibilities, the many facets to you that were simply fascinating, but the ugly truth hangs heavy that you were nothing more than a piper’s dream, a senseless illusion of idyll and fantasy.

Naked under the moonlight, I sit in the only space I may be so vulnerable, while the pain and despair fall away in beads of tears, lifted into the air and carried by the gentle wind to who may deserve this love the most.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 09.

How do you do it? How are you so effortlessly beautiful, so captivating, in spite of your sheer mundanity? Your unassuming nature irks me in more ways than one, because how can someone so extraordinary desire to be nothing more than ordinary? You are a miracle of daylight, with steady, reassuring warmth that has drawn me out from my cavern of darkness. You are the sun, in all its brilliant, blinding glory.

And I… I am the moon—yearning, helplessly loving you from afar.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 08.

When the most turbulent of times arise, it is so easy to fall prey to devastation, where humble progress through unimaginable resilience is overlooked. The obsession to comprehend how things turned out very differently than anticipated then comes naturally, as is wallowing in self-deprecation and despair. Self-centeredness becomes the status quo, and the incontestable fact that saints are indeed the select few amongst the throng of the lost resounds like a cacophonous trumpet through the balmy air.

I am no stranger to such conceit. Yet having taken off the mask of idiosyncrasies and vanity, I surrender it all. I pray with my unimpressive faith for a gentler future, with comfortable nights and kinder dreams, for my heart is fragile and my soul quite weary.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 07.

As I stand in shadows of grays and blues, the orange light beckons from a distance, asking me to join its jovial dance. Helpless and bewitched by its beauty, I reach out and what little remains of me, barely pieced together, crumble. The light warbles, and it is only then I realize, as I am a heap of dying embers, that a fire lies right before me.

Flames lick the ground, crawling closer and closer, and when we touch, I am yet again set ablaze and the dangerous play begins once more.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 06.

Darling, you’ve ignited me like none other. Suppressing the flames of affection I’ve harbored for you only fanned it into a wildfire, and inasmuch as it burns, I can only let these emotions consume me helplessly, for I love you. Maddeningly and passionately, as cruel as this summer has been.

And just as this summer is nigh ending, may it also take away this vain fixation, for I am not a mystical phoenix, made to resurrect from ashes. I am but a mere moth, drawn pathetically to a lethal flame.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 05.

Beneath the lonely, moonlit sky, the ever capricious river stills. Even the wind, in its notorious fickleness, dares not disturb the halcyon waters and resorts to the gentlest of breezes, choosing to bother my unbound hair and long, lace skirts instead.

In silent solitude, I sit in contentment. I wonder if the river is a reflection of myself, savoring a moment of deep contemplation before the current, emotions, come flowing violently yet again.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 04.

I write about you, sitting in sleeping fields of otherwise vibrant sunflowers. Stems of pink camellias, red chrysanthemums and purple columbines sit on my lap as I muse on the corymb of a pink hydrangea I’d left on your coffee table the week before. A tiny, gentle reminder of my presence in your space; a butterfly effect.

But between the two of us, I think it would be more appropriate to call you the butterfly, instead of I, otherwise how could one justify the kaleidoscope of colors you’ve opened my eyes to see?

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 03.

I hate that a ridiculous smile creeps up on my face every now and then, as thoughts of you plague my head—of sweet nothings and witty banters, of robust cackles and childish giggles. I hate that the mere idea of you is glorious sunshine after a thunderstorm—right when I’ve accustomed myself to the cold.

I hate that the words come unbidden once more, flowing with an intensity I have never known. Romantic ballads tug at my heartstrings and its lyrics ring truer than it has ever been—right when I’ve grown fond of the blues, have begun to hide away the lovesick poet in some dank chamber, wishing for her death.

I hate that like a dying tree miraculously revived, my affection grows stronger for you—you whom I’ve only encountered by sheer fate.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight, 02.

They say when one meets a challenging childhood, they’re destined for greatness. I say that is a romanticism of trauma and toxicity, a thinly-veiled attempt to keep the oppressed voiceless victims of societal cancer.

A child does not need strength—a child needs safety, security. A child needs a childhood fulfilled, otherwise that child will never heal, never grow, and never find a life of satisfaction.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

Musings Under Moonlight 01.

The Lunar new year came unannounced, bringing ill tidings; anguished sobs greeted the Water Rabbit. For all the years of pain and displeasure, I should have been hardened—when one is the chosen child of the night, embraced by all things devoid of life and light, misfortune is hardly surprising—and yet, I am not as strong as I picture myself to be.

I often wonder if it is greed, this wishful thinking of mine where I achieve many great things and meet the bare minimum of mundane success. I contemplate on whether I am being ambitious by wanting to live a life worth living, and if I am being despicable in yearning for such. Perhaps so, otherwise existing wouldn’t have had to be this miserable—and yet, I still carry on.

I press on, uninspired by a glimmer of hope. I press on, fueled by cold fury and lustful vengeance on the forces that find delight in my suffering.

夜子☆

[the-yoruko]

An Ode to Misadventures, 12.

I am no stranger to loneliness; rather, I am one of its loyal patrons. Either I frequent it, or, alongside self-deprecation, they frequent me, I can no longer tell. Both have been my constant companions, because when one is rejected by Grace, it’s only natural to turn to another, as an empty means of existing.

I too, can no longer recall the exact moment when the last drop of my faith was exhausted, when cynicism took over the reins of my mentality. Perhaps it was when I’d been blamed for not being prayerful enough, resulting in her death. Perhaps it was when I’d been subjected to looking after a broken, volatile man, until I too, would be shaped into his very likeliness: a product of an adolescence of survival, scarcity, insecurity.

Regardless of the origins, I have been embraced by the night, and having committed the greatest sin of self-loathing is, in itself, the most lamentable misadventure.

夜子☆