Left empty.

Void: Where I am, gasping for air.

An empty space, a vacuum. Unoccupied, empty. Its exactly where I am now, gasping for air. In between a state of complete and utter emptiness and drastic aggressive silence. Voided, left empty. I gasp. Memories vigorously evoked, a series of dusty events. Empty, being unwillingly led down an old path, a complete void. I don’t want to go there. I close my eyes shut, imagine flowers I say. Remember the find-it-in-your-heart-to-forgive me bouquet. It erased everything, it made you happy.  Imagine her voice, tossing your entire world into her lap, I gasp. It made you happy. Imagine the shore, your big curls, tiny toes and the tingle of salt water. It made you happy. Imagine her scent, the way only she smells on a fine Friday afternoon. I take a deep breath; inhale the nothingness in the air. She made you happy. I picture all that and many more. Accompanied by so many familiar emotions, awakened. I didn’t resist, I gasped for the very last time. Moments evoked merely by memory, none by reality. In reality, I was here, in the void, left empty. The memories are inexistent in realities like mine, disowned, forcefully detached like they never were true. Maybe in another life, imaginary perhaps, it can’t be, it can’t be real. It can’t even be called a simple recollection of the past.

 It wasn’t, it can't be, was it? 

Loss of precious little things.

Worth (n): 

An amount of something that has a specified value, that lasts for a specified length of time.

Usefulness, or importance.

Some things are worth more than others. Some people are too. No, not that way. Never materialistically, at least not here. Every “thing” here is of sentimental value, I’m speaking of that kind of importance, the important kind, the only kind that matters, the kind you can tell apart from all the other "things", an element that makes “things” stand out. It shows, most times its more obvious than ever, your worth. Most evident, in little "things" that are always meant for you. Directly. Individually. Only for you.

Things I would do, the times I would tell you, the other times I would put effort just to show you. You see?

Living in a messy world of mixed values and things of little-to-no sentimental importance. It’s a challenge for some to tell the difference, simple distinction, the ability to call something that of great sentimental value. Once you start paying attention to the little things, it gets clearer. It either exists or it doesn’t. It is either solely meant for you or just another common, overdone, constantly occurring gesture tossed in every other direction. 

That simple betrayal nips at my heart. It may not be considered betrayal at all. Just another gesture I thought much of and dismissed because of the absence of great sentimental value.

Look closely. Don't be tricked.

Your white things and I.

A tulip, a letter and a kiss planted on my cheek. Three things I am weak against. Three things I almost love as much as I love you. It's white, my favorite. The envelope is a square, almost see-through and I could see a paper folded perfectly. Neatly tied to that single stem. It's white too. You do it gracefully, effortless. It almost tricks me and on a different day I would've fell for it. You, the envelope, the tulip and the kiss. It says something else, it means something I feel it. Tell your eyes that. Let them know, convince them. You trick me. And if it wasn't what I know it is, I would've sighed in relief, stood on my toes reached out to thanked you for it the way you deserve. 

Why can't I open it until your gone? Until you give me your back walk away from me. 

Wouldn't it be late to read when you're long gone? That's what you want? Reading your words on paper, alone? I remember your handwriting in blue ink, my first letter. And the way you stood watching me closely, as I read every other letter that ever came after...

"For you, for the love of ink on paper." 

Your white things. The tulip shaking in my hands, I can barely keep hold of it. It's slipping through my fingers. The fragile beautiful white thing. I shake, I tighten my grip. Too fragile that it feels like breaking. It blurs. I can barely see you standing before me. They stream down my face. I look down to my feet. It didn't move you. It is that bad.

That sidewalk. You wore a white shirt, complementing your arms, making me feel safe. We were walking side by side, shoulder to shoulder or more like my head almost to your arms, clinging to you. You were talking nonstop and you never talk nonstop. That's what I do, you listen to me endlessly. You started stealing my role. I liked that. You looked down at me, that calm but loud voice in my ear, the sound of you that only I bring out.. 

"I could go on and tell you anything." 

Right there and then, I could see it in your eyes, you opened up to me like a eagle ready to fly, ready to soar so high in my sky. One that I owned and my eagle was barely visible from the ground. Mighty. 

What are you trying to say. Why don't you say it to me?

Mixed signals.

Burned that bridge in haste. Impulsively. As fast as I could. At that very moment, it seemed like the only rational thing to do. Its time to declare war my head told me and I just couldn't find it in my heart to make room for the benefit of the doubt.  Its the last place I want to be. You weren't there anyway. Why does every word I write to you still sting so deeply, taste so bitter. I feel it, right here, in the middle, my heart. Overtaken by the intensity of that feeling.  Heavy emotions, you always let them intervene it makes me feel weighed down. The anchor, yours. Stop dragging me down, thats not what you do. You lift me up. You confuse me. I told you, I only see the good in you. But lets get real, I always saw the best in you. Come closer. Now go away. Stop misreading the signals.. Go away.

The capacity to accept delay.

You told me not to worry. Wait and see. Things fall into place. I believe every word you said so I waited. Like I always do. Your wink, a mentors pat on the back. You trained me, oh so perfectly. To wait. To wait for every piece of the puzzle to fit together. To wait for things to fall into place. The way they should be, you said. You see I waited, just like you asked me to. You see, I waited .. a little longer than you asked me to. Always remember, the rule of the two extremes you said. Letting go and holding on and you told me all about the very fine line that separates them. You said both need patience and I knew even then I still had to wait. Do you remember? I was unable to see where I stood, on which side of the two extremes. How did I get there? Blinded. Distracted. Alone. 

I was too busy waiting.. Waiting like you taught me to, waiting .. for you. 

The Bloom and Fall.

One day I was by the window. Looking out. I wanted to be there, by the beach. Feeding my heart with the sound of the waves. I longed to hear that beautiful sound. I closed my eyes. Imagined the soothing sound of the big blue sea, as the waves hugged the shore. Serenity. The feeling of being infinite. Free. Tranquil. I still wait, as flowers wait for May. Dreading the wait, as leaves dread fall. How can something so beautiful, be this ugly? Suddenly that day passed, nothing changed and that year went right by.

Burgundy and defeat.

I'd say, I'm numb. I would say it over and over again. I am not. I feel it. Stronger than ever. Feelings flare up. I barely hear my own voice. I would say I've never been in a situation more painful, but I have and I felt it then as I feel it now. Emotions, are terrorist. They win. 

It is this time of year, July, the tricky part of July, that manages to always takes revenge. Different ways, the very same result. Defeat. 

Emotions can control every single fiber of us, like puppets on a string. Life makes a complete joke out of everything. What good does wishful thinking ever do? 

Dots.

Some cultures speak through silence, and learn through listening. However, the society and culture we live in speaks the language of rumours, false assumptions and accusations, fiction and a little spicing things up.  I wouldn't say we learn through listening, because we rarely do. We feed on the things we hear, and so badly want to believe. By that we start catagorizing other people as, the enemy. Simply because the only rational, sane, normal thing to do is judge. Putting each and every little detail that is none of our business, under a microscope. One with a broken lens, one that only shows us what we want to see, the art of make believe. Only reflects on who we are. At some point in your life, you realize that you are above certain things and that is exactly why you lose the urge to act upon them. Only because, they don't matter to you. I was raised by parents who taught me to always raise above. Remember, everything that is far from the truth, past on by little minds is merely a reflection of the person who started them. Exactly why I decided to raise above, sit back and watch the world connect the dots on its own. 

Lace and sunlight.

White. Peonies. Sunlight. And maybe lace. Clarity. Compromises. Gold in the air. Plenty of beauty in simplicity. The smell of freshly cut grass. I vividly remember the streets we were walking, the patch of that sidewalk, mid-summer day, laughter, giggles and happiness. I can still see the brightness the dark grey cement brought to my blue shoes. The contradiction. And that wasn't all there was more to that day and all the other days than just that. But everything else after is a blur. Faded, mostly gone. Usually, the question is, why do we only remember bitterness? In the face of what truly matters, we seek refuge in what makes more sense to pride and less sense to compassion. Remember, what made us happy then? That trademark twinkle in your eyes? Remember, how only the little beautiful things matter? Remember, when it was us against the world, hand in hand? Remember, why we stick together? Remember, where we had the time of our lives? Because I do. How can I forget. It brings back, all the joy and laughter and I feel it as I recall how you and I were the center of our little universe. Back when my circle only fit two feet. Ours. 


If your past was in a glass house. Would you be looking in or looking out?