fragments

I feel like everything that fell to pieces kind of convey some sense of relief, or peace, I don't know. It's heartbreaking, yet liberating at the same time, like the tension of holding everything together is no longer there, the point of no return is also the point of freedom from responsibility.

At the end of the day, what we truly want, we cannot articulate. Not to ourselves, not to the pair of eyes next to us. It's just an endless line of vases and vases, each straining to hold itself together, to contain all this water that threatens to overflow at the brim. At which point is it okay to knock the vase over? At which point is it okay to fall to pieces?

Shatter shatter. Spilling to the concrete, the shards sparkle quietly. Step on them, make a sound. Feel the little crystals multiplying beneath your feet. See how they catch the fluorescent lights above you. The water on the ground creeps slowly outwards, staining everything in its path the way it always does. See how beautiful broken can be.

So just fall apart with me.

**

hummingbird

Sometimes I forget how fleeting self-esteem can be. Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson said. I venture to guess that she meant something more specific--our hope in ourselves. It's lighter than the flutterings of a hummingbird, and just as escapable. Bat your eyelash for a second, and it could be gone. Keep on walking, and it could come back, waver in midair, all its powers of temptation right before you.

I suppose the only thing any of us could do (or perhaps the only thing I could do) is to keep on walking.

**

reboot

I am so tired of possibilities scrapped out from under me. It's literally been more than a decade. Shouldn't I have caught at least one break now?

Also, please don't give any bullshit about being intimidating or non-receptive, that's just what lonely people say after the fact. Trust me, plenty of windows of opportunity were left open, no one can accuse me of being closed off.

To a careless, skimming eye, this must all seem terribly cynical and whiny, but honestly, when there's not a cloud in the sky, why keep on forecasting rain?

I wish I were a robot so I can program the Hope Button off for a while. It's so very exhausting.

**

scrapbooking

The more peripheral scraps I get of you, the more perfect you seem. Putting the corners of torn images together, I'm kind of falling in love with you. This air of mystery is just the right dose to enhance the sort of self-effacing charm you hold. That, coupled with your quiet confidence, is enough to start a cacophony of thoughts inside me. I think I can safely say that I've never been so infatuated with anyone like I am with you in the last half decade.

I wonder what it's like to be the object of such secret obsession.

**

the dress

Smell is a potent wizard that transports us across a thousand miles and all the years we have lived.
--Helen Keller

When I was little my mom had this ratty old dress she wore at home. It must have been fiery orange-red when she first got it, but for as long as I can remember, it was a soft faded coral color, with a couple of unobstrusive holes hiding here or there. It was also terribly made, sleeve-less and curve-less, it resembled two pieces of cloth that someone decided to staple together.

For some reason, I loved that thing. Folding it carefully into a compact size, the four-year-old me would cradle it in my arms, feeling the soft air-like texture against my skin, occasionally burying my face into it. "It has a mommy-smell" I would explain to my dad, much to his delight and amusement. At the time, I did not understand what was so funny. It did have that familiar scent that lingers around, which I found, inexplicably, like a first home.

A few weeks ago I caught my mother trying to throw it out when she was cleaning out the closet. I didn't even know she brought it to America. Looking at it with a (somewhat more) objective eye, it was even more tattered and unimpressive than I remembered. I wonder why my mother had even brought it here, it seemed like she too, found this particular piece, filled with such memories, hard to let go, even though she hates displays of sentiment. I stopped her from tossing it, without much protest on her part. The dress is so old at this point that every aspect of it have begun to reverse itself. The fabric became a little harder and leathery from more than a decade's time, and as I buried my face in it once more, it no longer had the full fragrance of that comfort known to every lucky child on earth. Still, I'm convinced I caught a slight trace as I threw it back into a cardboard box. Maybe it's my psychology at work, unable to accept that what I loved so much is somehow fading. But even writing this, I don't think I mind this self-trickery on my part.

Memories are memories. Sometimes they are so strong one can manifest itself into a physical scent, transporting me across thousands of miles, and across all the years I have lived.

**

the ride

i hate it when people say, it'll come to you when you stop looking for it. Is that supposed to be practical advice? Hey you, you want this thing here? Good, now do nothing about it, don't even want it.

The thing about desire is, once you have one, you can't not do something about it. It's got only one lever, and that's the gas petal. Can you ever brake a desire, get out of the ride, and say, no thanks, I'd rather catch the next one?

On the roller coaster cart's way to the top, you wish for all the world for the cart to pause indefinitely at the apex, rather remaining indifferent forever than take the inevitable drop. But at that point, nothing's in your hands anymore. So you throw them up in the air and hope for the best.

At that moment when the earth becomes frighteningly small through your eyes, how do you stop it all?

**

through the looking glass

While life hasn't been boring, per se, none of the events has touched me on the inside, I suppose. I really wish I could start a blog chronicling the mundane details of my life, because honestly? I find some of them really interesting. But I save them for spoken words. They deserve to be found by the people who really find them interesting. Enough so that these people will come into my life and place themselves in front of my face, that's the only form of communication that's enough for me.

In a way, Narcissus settled, a silver screen was enough for him, (and as far as these thoughts go, enough for me), but sometimes I don't want just a looking glass. Plato once said that a mirror is not enough, we need to look into another eye to really see ourselves. It's not just that another eye gives you another perspective, it's that it's the only option for us. Despite its appearances, the enticingly shiny surface gives no perspective at all.

**

SIDENOTE:

I officially created a tumblr account two days after this was written. Throw your hands in the air if you're a hypocrite.