a raw collection of words from my heart


just tell me you're alright | it's fiction time (i.)

via | typography by me

a single tear worked its way down his high cheekbones.
he stole a glance at her. good, her gaze was turned towards the setting sun in the distance.
he hurriedly brushed it away, frustrated at his lack of control over his emotions and at the entire world in general.

she was the only girl he'd come this close to crying in front of, partly because she never judged him and partly because she was a cast-out in school. who would be ashamed in front of those whom were repeated cast aside, rejected, and unloved? he wasn't. she was his friend, albeit a secret friend. his friends could never hear of this. crying in front of a girl, or hanging out with a cast-out--he wasn't sure which was worse. he'd lose his position in his circle of friends if that happened.

"i was adopted you know," she interrupts his thoughts gently.

yes, he knew. that was one of the many reasons why she wasn't well-loved in school. she was an orphan living with a poor family on the edge of town. it was rumored her father had embezzled large amounts of money and died in a skirmish with the police. nobody knew who her mother was. once again he wondered why he was even talking to her. it could destroy all the friendships he ever knew. he kept silent.

"i don't know who my parents are, or whether they ever wanted me," she continued, "and that hurts."
"at least you know your parents love you," she added softly.

he looked up to search her dark eyes, not sure if he'd find envy and jealously. for him. or pity for her own portion in life. 
but her eyes were soft and...was that a hint of contentment? they were definitely peaceful considering the amount of hardships she had to bear at such a young age.
he had never look into her eyes before. at least, not since the day she found him by the stream, disconsolate and seething with rage. he'd only looked into her eyes out of surprise that she had found him. that was his secret spot, and apparently, it had been hers as well.

"some things you'll never miss until they're gone. and other things it'll take you years to realize you can live without."
her sigh that followed was highlighted with sadness and regret.

"you know if you talk in a more direct way, it'll help with your reputation in school.
just tell me directly that you want me to love my family more and pay less attention to what my friends think."

turning her eyes to hold his gaze, she murmured reproachfully, "it's not only your family. or your friends."

he was trying to figure out what she meant when she stood abruptly and stretched her legs.
"i gotta go, kevin. there's lots of work to be done." she laughed ruefully. "and i don't think you would want to be seen with me since your friends are on their way up the hill."

his friends.
sake's alive he could hear them now. was he really so deep in thought that he didn't hear that ruckus?
"thanks for the heads up, kate. i was just wondering, what did you mean when..."
he looked up, but she had fled down the hill.
he sighed.

 just imagine | ♥ it's fiction time


my attempt at writing fiction. the thoughts just flowed out and i rediscovered my love for writing.
i will probably continue this story when i find the time and inspiration :)

on another note: i have been swamped with school, and will be busy until end of may.
i'll be getting some guest posters though, and post when i'm free(ish). and a new blog design is on the way--so excited! :)



“There is such a place as fairyland - but only children can find the way to it. And they do not know that it is fairyland until they have grown so old that they forget the way. One bitter day, when they seek it and cannot find it, they realize what they have lost; and that is the tragedy of life. On that day the gates of Eden are shut behind them and the age of gold is over. Henceforth they must dwell in the common light of common day. Only a few, who remain children at heart, can ever find that fair, lost path again; and blessed are they above mortals. They, and only they, can bring us tidings from that dear country where we once sojourned and from which we must evermore be exiles. The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and story-tellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland.” 
-lucy maud montgomery, story girl-

i am awake before dawn, when the creases in the sky threatens to spill light and a lone star glistens overhead. there's something magical about the time before dawn. everything is quiet except for a solitary rumble of a distant car. the wind dances through the trees, making queer rustling sounds that remind me of the rustling of silken dresses. i make myself a very concentrated mixture of spicy apple cider and golden honey just to wake myself up, which burns my throat, but leaves a pleasant, tingling sensation. if one could taste sun rays, i would wholeheartedly vouch that it would taste just like that.

then i sit down to think about twenty fourteen.

i've always loved the story girl. she's one of the main characters in montgomery's book of the same name. she is dreamy, wistful, bold, passionate, loving, unpredictable. she thinks in colors, in shades of the rainbow--no wonder life is rarely dull for her. she speaks often of the golden road, a road that children can easily find, and adults rarely walk. then i realize with a start that this year begins my seventeenth year. one more year to college, three more years to twenty. it's almost time for the golden road to end and a new road to begin. but maybe, just maybe, if i try to remain a child at heart, i'll be able to visit the golden road again and look upon everything with the simple wonder and awe of a child.

twenty fourteen, i don't know what you'll bring, or what little surprises you have tucked up your sleeves.
but i promise, i'll make the golden road last for as long as i can.

late new year reflections, just because || 


within the cracks of sunlight

i met someone the other day. her name was failure, and she cruelly reminded me of how incomparable i was with others. i missed the passing mark by so little. yet she still showed up, determined to tell me how much i had missed the passing mark. how much my clumsy fingers floundered at various artistic skills. how terrible my expression of music was. how i couldn't do anything right.

i met someone else the other day as well. his name was bitterness. he followed me just long enough to harbor on the what failure had sneered at me. just long enough to plant that dreadful seed. no more, no less. he wasn't at all rude. he was so kind, and understanding. sympathetic even. but what he told me about others and myself hurt me far more than failure could.

know that the pull of bitterness and failure is strong. so, so strong. don't ever let them get to you like how i let them get me.
because once that happens, it's hard to forget what was once easy to let go.


nobody means anything, but they feel like everything. they feel like a myriad of relentless piercing throbs starting the deepest, darkest corner of my heart and spreading through me like wildfire, passionate and uncontrolled. it causes the lump in my throat at terribly inconvenient moments, and it takes everything i can muster to prevent the tears. but sometimes i can't, and i hate it when that happens.

i don't even know where difference is between me, and the illusion of me being who i am not.

i guess it all started when i tried to be someone i wasn't.
when i looked at myself and hated myself for being me, and closed my eyes to the true meaning of loving myself as His beautiful child.


i used to imagine sunlight in the shades of dust. how much dust i can see when the sunlight filters through. dust made the light pretty for me, and gave the light perspective. dust is very much unwanted (cleanliness and hygiene-wise). but it's so fascinating, and i can't help loving the unwantedness in it. call me crazy, or laugh at my oddness, but i can see the magical touch dust has on sunlight.

you know how the sea draws back suddenly at low tide, leaving all these debris exposed on the sand? i feel just like that. the cover i've hidden myself under is unraveling, exposing the mess of me. it's not a pretty mess, but it isn't ugly. there's something akin to beauty in that tawny bits of wood lying around, in almost symmetrical scatters. and the rustic glory of the pale, dusty sand.

is fascination with the unbeautiful messes of life good? sometimes people think it's crazy, but maybe that is just because they don't understand.


sometimes pouring my thoughts helps me understand why i made choices, and why things happen.