Dreams

Things remembered amidst the space between slumber, things forgotten when one is awake. Where the deepest laters of memories become the outmost layers of memories that in turn become the outmost layers of one's dreams.

Which is reality? Which are illusions? One cannot tell amidst the languor upon an awakening. Yet in this lassitude are remnants of the past dreams and memories.

Or perhaps they are: At the same time, both truth and fiction.

A vast nebulous with no boundaries... An emptiness equivalent to my own existence. I dreamt such a dream... A never ending dream... And in this dream I saw you…

I saw us.

Solo

Solo

A singular entity mimicking the flow of time, in a constant drag against relativity. All thoughts and form, coagulates into a stream of endless circumvolve. A depiction of time in it’s endless dilemma, ticking into moments of trajection atop the numbered face. And as time unwinds… The Earth begins shifting…

Shift

Reflections of self, shadowed against the planes of life. What we see is not what we get… As we shift along the sands of time, we grow into a different perspective. Some shadows larger than ourselves, some conquered by our dislocation, yet they are all conjured by our own thoughts and imagination. No matter how taunting our past might silhouette against the now, it’s all upon the shift of ourself to conquer the then… As life fades to cessation, all that’s left are just two colours. White and black.

Two

The amount of movements at any one time. A dual plate against the balance of everything equal. But there is no egalitarianism… In this double edged sword of humanity, ideology separate us. But dreams and anguish bring us together. We are all just pushed into the circumstances that evolve along the prior and latter.

Push

Moving through the salient seas, against the waves that push us back. We build bridges only to cross them and burn them behind us eventually, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered. We are here not because we choose to, but because of the limited choices we are given…

And it ended…

I Miss Her

I’m beginning to take things as they come, paginating each day and thoughts upon the leaves of expired time. As I pined for her on a daily basis, the only solace I could seek, was the photos of our past. Frozen bits of time, thawing at each reminisce. Conversations and messages, archived at the vicissitudes of various conjectures.

There’s so much I want to know, so much I want to say. But amidst the distortion of time and space, the closest we could ever be, was through the sonant quaver of digital remoteness surmised within the span of an hour, or less... Sequestered by the vast expanse of distance in kilo miles yet connected by just a few numbers.

Echoes of her resound in my head… Dreams of her brought me closer to where I once was and where I will be, and as our last touch still tingle at my fingertips. Rekindling the sparks of every single moment… I see her again… I just hope she remembers them like I do.

A hundred thousand miles away, how can I let her know that I missed her more than any words could ably say…

My Remedy

In this life, we connect. However briefly, however fleeting. Across thoughts and various other forms. We remembered each other through the songs that bind our memories together… Time became our test on fate, and distance the strength of our faith.

At times I get back to my room and closed the door, unsure of myself, unsure of what to do, unsure if my decision to leave is even logical. Amidst these incessant questionings, I falter. Along the chain of thoughts, giving up has became a real option… But every week, she gave me strength; she says it will be over real soon and that each passing day marks a day closer when we will finally meet again.

Every week, I would seek solace on this day…, When I could finally hear her voice again… For she is the remedy to my soul, to save me from all these madness and caliginous thoughts…

Deathology

Is the ideology of death itself, and each of us believe in different deaths... But most religions state that there will be this higher cognizance after life, and that we will transcend to another realm, freed from pain and the seven sins. I’ve always believe in this soul anecdote... I’ve dreamt about such a place, and the realism of it strikes me deeper than anything...

Especially when someone or something around my sphere of influence needs to define it, in someway or another. Everyone of us have a set of ideology on death, clouted by the the proliferation of information. Even as we are literally dying ater 20, we each hold a different perception of death… Be it a pet, a friend or a family member… At times we thought we are prepared to face it, but we aren’t… We are never prepared to lose anyone or anything, in whatever form death might come.

I’m not that morbid as this entry sounds… It’s just that death is just a process. And like happiness. It’s never about the end, but the journey that matters.

We are going to die anyways...

A Photo From The Heart

I gave her my sights, my heart, my everything. In this place where coincidence could never occur, I could only make it happen. And in this accuracy of time, I got her where the zone of 2 continents collide.

Under the same moon we gaze, beside the window we sat. Yet in a different country we exist, the closest we could ever be, is only through the radiowaves of an eternal reverberation. As her voice touches me upon the quaint remembrance of subtlety, I felt right at home again… As I share with her the sights of my journey, I sent her a photo that meant something to me…

A photograph is a secret about a secret, it is a thought in a story; an eternal memory. And the more it tells you, the less you know. And in this secret between us, is a message from me to her that’s worth more than a thousand words… Perhaps she could never comprehend, but when she sees it, I know she will smile… Because it’s a message that’s only meant to be felt...

I Read You

Your hurts and worries - carefully framed and angled against the light, that the shadows might spill just so. Your happiness and laughter written out in vivacious discourse, buoyant and sanguine.

Your anger, sharp and jagged against the page. Clinical observations and heated opinions. Brazen revelations and coy confessions.

Your disappointment, deep along the oceanic trench. Where even a diver like me could never venture let alone comprehend.

I read you in these things. In these thoughts you share. I read you and I guess - for guessing is all I have. Like trying to reverse engineer every raindrop in a hurricane - to discern the glorious colour of the butterfly's beating wings.

I read and arrogantly imagine I have some sense of you. However remote. However imperfectly perceived. However distorted by language and distance, by your inscrutable aspects and my implicitly flawed assumptions.

I read and I believe that the quintessential part of you that extends out here into your facebook and those other places where our lives ever so briefly touch - is knowable. Is something real on its own terms and however you choose to define it.

I’m not addressing your problems, because I don't really know them. But I know you - and you are wonderful. Broken and wound down at the bottom of a pool but still totally wonderful.

You’ll pull through this and all else. I’m sure of that. You’ll preserve when you need to and let go when you have to. And you don't need to hear any of this, I know.

But maybe I just needed to say it.