Random Update (IV) : Yeah, my life’s interesting!

I don’t know if it’s that I only find during this time of day for this purpose or if I find personal satisfaction in blog posts in these ungodly hours that make me type into the screen so early in the morning (or late at night?) Or it’s just simply that at this time I’ve no one to speak to so I turn to speak to you (Thank You!) … So, an update on my life is what you’re probably asking for.
Right now, 03:11 am, 2 subjects done and one more to go, Dan Hill’s “Sometimes when we touch” playing and of course updating my blog.
Earlier today I took a quiz to find my mental age and it said I’m 12 years older mentally than I really am. I wasn’t surprised and I’m not shocked either. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.
So I guess I need to say something that goes with the title, right? Anything at all that makes my life interesting.. yeah, he’s something interesting; I wrote a letter on what looks like an old burnt paper and put it into an empty wine bottle and sealed it by lighting a candle on top of it. My friend then wanted to read it so we decided to break the bottle. We smashed the bottle against the hard ground and took out the letter and read it. I’ve always wanted to do that and now I’ve finally done it!
Lately I’ve been missing home a lot too… I miss my family and I’m counting days to go back to them.
I’ve been writing though I haven’t posted all that I have and some of them, I never will.
I’m still obnoxiously thoughtful sometimes, and I’m still obsessed with words. Changed, I may have in many ways… but in certain ways, I’m still me and I always will be.
Now back to my books and my third subject. And you, good day to you! And Happy 24th of April 🙂


She only cries in her Sleep

She cries too, and it hurts her,
She was once you, a learner.
Every time you hurt her she smiles,
But unseen to you, a part of her dies.
You don’t see what she does,
Or the bruises beneath her dress.
She’s a wanderer and a lonely one,
She says the goodbyes as they come.
She laughs but she hasn’t laughed in years,
That has just been a mean to escape the tears.
Her voice full of pride, her head held high,
She waits for an uneventful way to die.
She smiles a little wider for the camera,
But don’t judge her, don’t you dare!
Her cuts run deeper than you see,
She’s not anything she seems to be.
Every smile hurts her but she still smiles
Even when a tiny part of her dies.
She won’t accept the love you give her,
Because she was denied of it one September.
That was when she needed it the most,
She wasn’t… she was considered last.
That time you hurt her; she’s still healing from it,
She says she’s fine but she’ll never be alright.
No one sees it because the bruises are too deep,
And they only see her smile because she only cries in her sleep.

still shielding a sinister soul

The fact that you have no clue who you’re reading about shows that no matter what I say, I will continue to shield that sinister soul.
I’ve dropped my defences in your defence, lost myself looking for the part of you that I lost, given up fixing hearts because they’ve only broken mine. I’ve given up on the picture I painted of you because you remind me of who I used to be.

I’ve been fighting the world because all they’ve ever got to say is nasty things about you. And in your defence, I’ve dropped mine, allowed people to say things about me I’ve never wanted to hear. I’ve let them curse me for building that impenetrable shield around you, for trying to protect you from those disgraceful words they shot at you. In your defence I allowed them to swear under their breaths when I walked past them, allowed them to make a fool out of the image I put up for you, make myself a coward… and I didn’t care because I was still holding you up. And as long as you were above me, I didn’t mind being the underdog.

When you lost a part of yourself I thought you had left it behind in me so I looked all over myself, trying to make you complete. And when I couldn’t find it I thought maybe it was I who had lost a part of you, and in my quest to find that part of you that used to reside so perfectly within me, I lost something else. I lost the meaning in me, the very thing that defined me. I lost more of myself than I lost you and I still didn’t stop looking for you because I thought it would fix me in the end. But it turns out I can never find the part of you that I lost; and worse, I don’t think I’ll ever find my lost self either.

I tried to fix broken hearts the way you used to sew together my broken world. I’ve given up. It turns out the healer needs healing too, the writer runs out of words to speak as well… because the healer gets wounded too, and speaking was never the writer’s job. I realise now that by trying to make you smile, all I ever did was rob myself of the smiles. I know now that sewing together broken hearts isn’t as easy as the impression you gave me. They’ve only broken mine a little bit more.

The brush strokes that drew together that beautiful picture of you in my mind are starting to fade away now but the ink is still so fresh. I’ve used that very ink to paint an imposter of a smile on my face; a smile I put up for the world to hide the pain of seeing minute parts of your shattered soul in the eyes of someone else.


The Black Scarf

A long post – after a long time 😀 Leave your opinions behind and I hope you all are doing good 🙂

Her hair flew behind her as she walked with a spring in her steps. Her fingers were balled into fists and stuffed into her coat and the cold was biting her bones. Earphones plugged into her ears, she was listening to a sweet melody of music that mixed times as she walked against the bitter wind on the sunny day. Leaves and pine cones circled with the wind all around her and she turned into a smaller road, heading straight to the tiny shop at the end of it. As she did, her shoe gave way under her foot and the soul ripped in half. She swore under her breath and bent in half to fix it. Just then she caught a glimpse of a familiar looking figure walking her way.

Her heart skipped a few beats, her throat felt dry and her bag slipped off her shoulder. She didn’t know where to look, and she didn’t know if she should risk looking at him at all. At seeing the poor sight of her, he rushed to where she was and before she knew it, she was on her feet facing the boy whose jet black with touches of the evening sunshine rustled in the wind like the dry leaves around them, whose eyes stirred the deepest thoughts in her mind. He wore a jacket, deep grey, that stood in contrast to the sky above them, and wrapped around his neck quite handsomely was a black scarf. To top it all off he wore a black top hat tipped in the  front. One of his hands wore a watch and in the other he held a bouquet of flowers.

Her eyes were fixed on the flowers. The emotions churned inside her. She was so mad that she could slap him across his face, so mad that her fingers itched to tear the bouquet to a million pieces and burn them all in front of him. She was mad enough to feel the tears welling up inside her eyes and she did a poor job of residing the hate and anger within herself.

“Who’s the girl you’re trying to impress now?” She shot at him, digging her fingernails into her frost-bitten  palm, “OUCH!”

“What?!” He panicked

Her ideal self would have chosen not to say anything but it was only too clear what had happened. Her right wrist was bleeding from a fresh gash across it from the branch that had given way to the wind and missed her head. He reached out his free hand to hold hers in his and as he held her hand, she forgot pain.

Her fingers were soft against his scarred palm, they were cold and as his fingers enclosed her palm, she felt the warmth spread through her veins and reach her bones. She was mad at him and yet she couldn’t help but feel complete in his presence, warm and loved. She wanted him to pull her closer, to say something that would make her feel special, something that would reflect her thoughts and emotions but she knew she’d never hear the words she wanted to from the boy who carried flowers to other girls. She was lost in thought but he wasn’t. He gave her the bouquet of flowers carelessly and she took it with her free hand and for the first time she looked at the flowers themselves. It was a bunch of yellow and red wallflowers with specks of purple and white flowers whose name she didn’t know. Some girl, tonight would be happy, she thought. Some girl will feel loved, some girl will fall for him all over again, some girl would feel the best she has felt in years… she didn’t know who it would be but all she knew was that it wasn’t her and this broke her heart. She wanted to punch his face that was now tightened in concentration as he carefully wrapped his scarf around her wrist. No smile was on his face, it was a sad face. A face that almost seemed hurt as much as her heart was. When he was done tending her wrist, he looked up to face her again and then took a step back.

“Thanks,” she said offering him a smile eventhough all she wanted to do was ask him a million questions even when she knew she didn’t want to hear the answers.

“That’s alright,” he said without a smile, “Don’t bother returning the scarf.. and the flowers, they were for you anyway. And err.. just so you know, I don’t want to impress anyone. I just wanted to appreciate someone.”

He turned sharply and without a backward glance he walked away from her, the way he had come… his pace increased until he began a slow run and disappeared from sight. Everything spun around herself. She watched after him, repeating his words in her mind and trying to figure out what had just happened. The image of the boy she had fantasized about slowly faded from view and the painful reality of what had just happened came back to her mind. It hurt, and that’s when she remembered her bleeding wrist, now wrapped in a warm black scarf. It covered the gash from her eye but it hurt her deep inside, throbbing with pain as the grief reached her eyes.

She brushed her fingers through the flowers, the scarf heavy on her hand. Her fingers were brought to an abrupt stop as an object stood between the flowers. She parted the flowers and looked to see an open envelope addressed to her in thin, slanting handwriting. She sat on a bench in the roadside and with the bouquet now on her lap, she opened the envelope and began to read from it,

The red and yellow flowers, they’re wallflowers – and they’re supposed to mean ‘faithfulness in adversity’
The little purple and white ones, they’re ‘Marjoram’ and they mean ‘courtesy and gratitude’.
Thank you for being a faithful friend, and I thought I finally had to appreciate your friendship. I have immense gratitude towards you for being there for yourself when I couldn’t make it.

His name was placed to stand out from the rest of the words. The dying rays of light fell on her tear streaked face and the sky was turning a beautiful shade of purple. She raised her bandaged hand and wiped the tears off her cheeks and she did so, she smelled the sweet scent of his that he had left behind on the scarf. It  reminded her of his weird dance moves and his fake superhero actions; the kid that lived in the man. Someone stuck in his teenage years a little beyond them. It reminded her of the rough edges to his voice, the innocence in his words that she had mistaken time and again for pretentiousness, the honesty about him that she was so mad about, the silence in his speech and the pauses between his sentences that she thought was arrogance.

She stood up, leaving the bouquet of flowers for someone else to pick up and tucked the envelope into her coat. Her head bent low and her fingers tugging the corners of the scarf she walked back the way she had come. She felt as if her soul had been ripped in half, just like her shoe had. Her heart bled just as much as her hand did, and squeezing the life out of her bleeding heart, just the way the scarf did to her wrist, were the words ‘impress’, ‘appreciate’ and ‘friend’.

That last time they saw her, it was years later and they found next to a burnt letter and vial of poison wrapped in a black scarf. She never asked for his heart and so he never gave it, the flowers… he had once given them, but she never accepted it. The letter he had written for her – she found it useless without the flowers so she had burnt it out… but the black scarf. The Black Scarf – that was the one thing she held on to, the one thing that he loved so dearly and yet let her have it for herself.