Is it wrong to be human?I guess not Is it wrong to feel every inch of irritation till tears flow down your cheek?The answer is no.All of this will make you realise at some point of time that life will continue to be like this. Let it sink in,feel every hurt,every failure, every messed up situations. Let it settle,cry out loud.Then you will realise the burden you're carrying is unnecessary trash and you will let go of it eventually. (You might as well laugh at yourself for all these things and shake it off) #whatif
I am green,dangling from one of their branches. I am perennial to a very few, bearing the wind gust,the thunderstorms of heavy rain.I'm with them when the pleasant breeze greeted a hello and the rainbows painting their sky with its colour.So here we are,standing tall and green admired by many for the bond that kept us strong. To most of them,I am the autumn leaf.I disappear only to be found again in the season of green. And then there are those branches from which I had already been wrinkled,golden brown making my exit from the limited lifetime that binds me to their roots.I disappeared from the site with a rustle, crushed by the pedestrians and swept away by the wind to a new journey that awaits.
I am one of the many leaves on your branches.I am and will be just one of the those that are already there on your branches as well as a leaf others don't want to shed. But I am a leaf.I will be drifted to new branches throughout.This cycle of mine continues.
I wish letting you know how i feel is as easy as you think it is.I want to get this off my chest its a heavy burden to carry when it just appear out of the blue but How am i supposed to tell you whats wrong when i am so unsure of what is troubling me.
My soul finds shelter in these simple things.Everytime I hit rock bottom,my soul seeks for a shelter to calm down and heal the wounds and honestly,i have the perfect shelter to balm my soul. •Simplicity can work wonders•
It has painted my sky with different shades of colour(which i believe it will continie to do so). The darker shades which momentarily turned my canvas into a dull art but with the sands of time slipping i can see they blended perfectly with the colourful shades making my canvas of life a well balanced one. Silly me i tried to erase the darker shades or cover them up which i miserably fail to do so.Now i realised it was suppposed to be that way,its supposed to stay there so the balance won't tip off. I see the beauty glowing and shimmering with years passing by. •|I must say,my canvas of life painted by the universe,like fine wine,it gets better with age|•♡
Sanity above the azure clouds The sky painting its beautiful shade of colours gentle serenity is what i see when i gaze at the sky. The wind of faith was pushing me to take the leap There i was flapping my wings in the place where i belong! The breath of air up above is solace as could ever be leaving the chain of humdrum cities,the never ending busy life, the opinionated people, the old faces,the baggages of life.
The petals basking on the sun,reflecting the purest,golden old soul.So fragile,you don't want to be hard on them fearing they cannot withstand the touch of nature's downpour.The blanket of green leaves wrapping its huge warmth around what seemed like a delicate flower.But they only see the outer fragile beauty she chose you show. Obscuring the foundation she was made of.Her roots seeping from the tiniest of cracks of the unshakable rock, keeping her roots strong enough to with stand the storms yet the delicate part of her,still radiating the grace she carries.She's a wild flower blooming her grace in the cliff of uncertainties.
Writing isn't a therapy for me. I never understood the idea of writing being so therapeutic, that somehow trying to write down what you feel is gonna magically makes it easier to survive. The objective part of my brain knows that language is a complicated thing. It's sorta like an output of whatever it is that your brain process and you experience as feelings. And feelings are just chemical reactions, when you zoom enough, chemical reactions are nothing but physics, right?
Is it okay to see humans as much complex physical systems running on chemical processes that perceive the world as it is?
I always had this feeling that we are limited by our language. How much you can express yourself is limited by the strength of the language itself.
Sometimes you feel too much, it is as if all the words the world has to offer is not enough to pen it down on a white sheet of paper that looks as empty as the space between stars where light forgot to touch. You're not sure what to make of it, what it is that you're feeling, or the why, so you keep it for yourself and try to make sense of it.
It is a strange kind of loneliness, isn't it?
Is it the limitation of the language or the limitation of your knowledge about the language?
But at times you don't need the language at all. One look at your best friend and you immediately know that inside joke you both are thinking about. A touch, a hug makes it easier to lift that weight pulling you down. A silent night staring at the starry sky with that someone, and you know, you just know that this is the one, even if it only lasts for a day or week or month or a few years, you know this is the one. Infinities and forevers are tiny little moments, aren't they?
I used to romanticize about reality and existence. I still do. But there is this internal battle that I'm forced to go through where my left and right side of the brain fight to figure out who can come up with the best explanation to this reality that I perceive as mine.
Do you really need to understand "the why" to feel a little less of the existential dread falls upon you every night? Or knowing that "why" takes anything away from the subjective experience that feels so personal?
I don't think I've ever loved anyone enough to write like Neruda, or was sad enough to write like Bukowski. Perhaps that's why the lines often end up being so mediocre that I end up deleting on a second read. But there are some words, carefully structured by someone else in a way to make art. With the very first read, it connects with you. Every line, every word, and every space makes sense, telling you the story that you always wanted to shout out. "this is exactly what I feel".
Perhaps it is not the writing that makes you feel better, it's the carefully crafted words that you read and knowing the fact that there is someone out there who feel the same, finding that human connection to know that you aren't the only one. Someone has lived this life, lie down in the same space, and looked at the same sky wondering about the same damn questions. Some managed to find the right words to tell the story and some never did. Maybe all of this is how I feel, maybe you feel it too. Maybe this story is mine, maybe this story is about some random stranger with no name or a face, maybe this story is yours. Does it really matter?
I don't think it fixes you, but for a moment you are not alone, you smile. One day you learn how to make peace with it, but still wonder about things beyond all the words and all the languages that the world remembers, beyond the mundane chains beyond the bounds of gravity, something somewhere the world forgot to reach.
You wish you could understand, how you feel complete yet empty at the same time. I wish too.