dream, hard-

The season of Valentine started with poetry. Poetry with a keen sense of the physical. Not sexual, just physical. It made her pant; breathless, like something strong and raw had caught her, raw and powerful. The poems were not just words, but throbbing with a strength of life that made them physical, words that could really grip and hold you. Tight.

For a moment that was all in her mind - the words, the words, the strength of the words. It was followed by a wave of surprised delight, warm like the golden glow of the sun on the skin, the gentle bath of mid-morning warmth, induced by the rediscovery of the love between words.

How strange it is when words do meet, the way the letters kiss and the words join to to form a product; an image, a new world, sometimes full of fancies and whims, sometimes a harsh dystopian image,

Sometimes, an escape.

A loud burst of laughter from the crowd broke her train of dreams, and then in the sudden silence of her mind she felt almost lost, and there was fear, but a quick look revealed that the laughter came from a harmless group of children. She could hardly cared less, and turned away. And, as if she had not delight enough, she realised then that the sky was glowing pink, and that soft hue was spread everywhere, curling gently round leaves, rippling across the walls of the buildings. It was the pink of unicorns, of fairy world with princesses and princes. For a moment, the world she knew had been transformed, back into somehing more alive and exciting, something intoxicating.

Intoxicating, like the almost-overwhelming smell of strong heady cologne fumes warmed up by the body. The world in front of her exploded into starbursts, pink and blue, white and colourful astericks - her head throbbed as a myraid of ideas, thoughts, emotions gripped her. Suddenly, everything seemed to be crying out to her for attention, the grey rough surface of slate tiles, the way the lines met and criss-crossed, the green of the grass that stretched ahead of her, the ragged cloud-boys running across the skies, their garments dirty grey from play and mischief. How bright and new the world seemed again, when the abstract had become physical, it was beautiful; elements swirled round and round; it was once again a world where all were spheres, conducted by angels, trembling gently, making the light buzz of sweet music that is supposedly closed to human ears - but oh, perhaps they could, if unseen words could become a physical force, one to be reckoned with, then why not the unheard be heard, human's ears be open? - all things unknown now existed, it was strange, fantasical and exciting. Chaos bubbled within her, it was all too much to taken in, so intense, very much so. What was she to do?

She took in a long deep breath.

And let herself fall.

pain-

is about losing my pen.

I have been reduced to a mere toddler, only able to fill in colouring book with colours. Unable to write, only edit. Unable to compose a drawing, only fill in colours within set lines.

-rocks and rocks in pain-

anguish, is hurting, and unable to find warmth. unable to vent. the feelings gawn within me, sucking my marrow dry.

Will you write for me? Pen down my expression and feelings. Write a story for me, about how a girl got infatuated with a guy, and found her pride in him.

Write a story, about how the guy constantly let her down, but she didn't mind.

Write a story, about how that guy is no more, but she still yearns, and hurt. And continue sacrifice for him.

With all senselessness.

1.

Where to next? It was a question that hit with a nauseating blow, like a sand bag falling into the soft fats of the stomach, dead solid, yet seemingly soft, leaving a tingling numbing sensation - mildly uncomfortable, yet not.

There was noise in the classroom, high squeals and laugher, the excited chatter of people sharing their tales of the weekend, but, what were they really? What did it all boil down to?

Emptiness, emptiness. All was raging emptiness, the swirling chaos of nothing. For how could it compare to the expanse of time that stretched ahead, the eternity that'll be spent in heaven.

Or hell.

2.

I was having difficulty breathing. Again.

Usually I get scared, a little panicky, but today I was less.

I could not decide whether to rest or not. I was tired. Rest seemed to be a respite I could be grateful for, a way to indulge myself, a break, a pause, a chance to slow down. But sleep felt alarming. Would I not lose control when I sleep? All that would keep me breathing would be my subconscious mind. And maybe it'll just stop, you know? And I'll slip away without even realising. Others do the realisation. At least while I was still awake, conscious and aware, I could take charge. Conscious, purposeful breathing.

In, 2, 3, 4, Out, 2, 3, 4, In, 2...

It hurt to breathe in so deeply, for there was a tight pressure around my chest, pressing at my heart. But I did it nevertheless. One breath at a time.

The pain came and went. Came and went.

3.

Sometimes I wonder exactly where I would go after Death. Heaven? Hell? I think I believe in their existence. Never questioned it before. Never really needed to. All the "how is it possible/what about other possibility/you never really know" questions thrown by doubters were just further speculation after all no?

But where would I go for eternity?

I used to be sure. That was when I was a child. May not sure, sure, but the possibility of going to hell never really came to mind. Then as I grew older, the possibility dawned on me.

I don't think I will. But the question lingers. And some others. Like, guilt. Would I feel guilt that I managed to be in Heaven and others didn't. Even if it wasn't of my own hand? Or the nagging voice that I haven't done enough? Or embarrassment? Perhaps, even inferiority? Shyness, feelings of being socially awkward?

But they always say our imagination can't imagine the full splendor, wonder and glory of heaven. I guess we'll have to leave it at that.