carpe diem

we are struggling souls,
trying to salvage what we can and
cannot, meeting deadlines and
exceeding expectations.
and it is only in the silent of the night,
the wee hours of the morning,
can we, truly,
be alive.

peculiar

Life is peculiar.

Nothing is left unturned. The tides flow as they please, the wind howls as they desire, the menstrual cycle. Nothing is ever alone. Not you, not me, not the organelles on the skin that wraps us.

Everything is always in motion. By laws of nature, like the Earth’s rotation, the Moon’s revolution, the Planets’ orbit. And by laws defying nature, like the dew that trickles down the leaf’s blade, the coffee that drips through the filter.

Everything is always happening so quickly, like the death of the dragonflies. The lashing of a tongue, the flutter a little too late, a valiant struggle, the decapitated wings, the surrender, the retrieval, the stomach unemptied.

Nothing quite makes sense. Not the language we wear on our tongues, not the herbs in the broth, not the way currency evolves. Not you.

Not me.

days numbered 

​your days are numbered from
the day you were born,
and each breathe you take may
well be your last.
your only salvation,
however,

is to cherish
those who existed and inked
their shadows onto
your pathetic, minuscule life

dangerous activity

i think it is dangerous to partake in late night ramblings but this situation calls for one, so i am going to heed my urges and you are going to read it. it’s been a few days since i began my internship. and already, i feel the inadequacy of my existence in the company. the praises that i used to get are merely vapours of the past, and adapting to a new life is yet again a big hurdle to overcome.

truth is, i wish i am less of a pessimist and more of an optimist. i wish i would think of this opportunity as a way to hone my craft. and i wish i am smarter and more resourceful. i wouldn’t deny that i once wished i was birthed with a golden spoon and that life would have been vastly different – maybe better. being a perfectionist hurts.

being a perfectionist hurts. and no right words, or phrases, or sentences can aptly describe this feeling. if i am forced to put these to words, i’d say something inside me is, slowly but surely, eating me alive. and while it may seem i am breathing and eating and sleeping fine, my soul may have already been shattered into a million shards.

that said, there is no beauty without pain.