Yesterday will always be a temptation. Questions of what could have been, or what might have been, should just be locked up in a big heavy suitcase, hidden in the attic. Or the storage room, if you don't have an attic. Or in a safe deposit box, in a bank somewhere, if it's really a treasure. Anywhere you fancy, just make sure that it is out of sight. Never to be looked at, on a daily basis. If it's really a treasure. Anywhere you fancy, just make sure that it is out of sight. Never to be looked at, on a daily basis. If you need a refresher, you can go to it for a minute, and just look at it for a really short while. But always remind yourself why it is locked up like a crazy person, in the first place. There must be a good reason. It must be a dangerous thing to be let loose on the streets. Now, you can't allow yourself to be responsible of what harm it could bring to others. Or yourself, in particular. So forget it. Monsters are always kept as secrets, away from prying eyes. So, why should you let others see yours? Be safe now. Ta.

Poetry tastes bitter
when there's no more believing.

When we die, will we really dissolve into nothingness? Silence? Eternity of peace? Can something real just fade away like that? Will it merely take seconds, hours, days or never?

A subject so delicate, yet so beautiful. It makes me want to swim in the not-know-it-all-at-all. But the lump in my throat warns me constantly, of the danger that might be. It could be the ugliest thing, or perhaps just mundane, but there's no way to know.

Like there is no way to know how a soul can sit prettily and take ugly beatings from its surroundings. An overused question, a million years ago. "How can something so beautiful be surrounded by such ugliness." Perhaps, the ugly is seen as beauty in time, and the real beauty fades, slowly into nothingness.

Slowly, but not surely. There's no telling yet what awaits at the end of the journey. If beauty ever makes it.

There, a noose is ready, hanging on the ceiling.

But this time, it's for the ugly.

No thank you I would say, to the lady in red.
I have given and forgiven, and swept all under the bed.
I do not need anymore, the things that people fight for,
for I have nothing, furthermore to be said.

It's like high school all over again. Awed by the presence of the person that I have a crush on, but I have to keep it all to myself.

Hush, hush. Not a soul is supposed to know.

Not that person. Not yet. I'll wait till I'm a bit older.

It's like high school all over again.

Father, teach me how to fish? For I am in no mood to eat poultry, this month. For I am not them, this particular month.

And I do not want to go to the market, for I am not me, not during this month.

I remember the times that I loved the market. Do you?

But then, the river is so far away. If there is even a river still!

How am I suppose to survive?

I don't want the food that strangers send to our doors. God knows what's in them.

I want, I want, I want...

I know what I want.

But I can't ask for it.

Do you ever wake up, and turn, only to realize that you are sleeping alone? And when you walk out of your room (or not), you are home alone? And when you walk out from your house (or not), there is no one around?

And without bothering to change from your pjs (or whatever that you wear to sleep, or what you don't wear), you take you car key and start the engine, and when you drive around there is still not a single person to be seen?

No one at the toll booth, no one at the gas station, no one at McDonald's drive through counter.

But you do not wonder where everyone is. As far as a mile of your concern, you have always been alone in the world.

But, what is this string, tugging on your neck (not in a killing/suicidal way)?

Someone is pulling you out from the fishbowl?

How will you breathe without water?

How will you live, 
not alone?

Boo. Hoo. 

So what if your heart has been broken to a million and one pieces. You can still scoop the super tiny pieces, put them in a box and auction it to strangers. Who knows, someone might be crazy enough to buy them and try to put them back together again.

However perfect the heart is put together, glued, and hanged on the wall, you can still see the lines where each piece meets another. And of course, some pieces will be lost in transition thus leaving slivers of holes here and there.

It can never be perfect again. But then again, what is perfection to you? Or me? 

So, tell me. About compromise.

We walk with our chests open, a knife on our right hands (left if we are left-handed), and a sign on our foreheads that say "Three tries for the most fatal puncture". On our backs, life sized orang utans will be hanging from our necks, a token for the winner. 

There will be only one winner for each of us and for every win, one of us dies.

Is death silent? Or noisy like when we sleep? Like when we shut ourselves from the real world, another dream buzzes, forcing our minds endless cycle of thoughts, conscious or not. 

Is death dark? As dark as no light? As dark as the hearts of evil that do not even bother to pretend? 

Where is death? 

Mine, yours and his.

Where is immortality?

Three. 

Tries.