my scribbled world

a shape which lost it’s shapeness , a dream with no vividness , a sky that is skyless, a right that is not so right. it’s unusual but is it wrong ?

i like things and objects when it’s quite unshaped or out of shape. when the uneven sharp edges dents the surface of my hands when i don’t dream but recreate a reality out of a vision, when i look into the sky and it has no clouds but it’s limitless, raw and uncovered. i like the wrong that’s of value, despise the right that’s said to be so.

i scribble the straight lines into a chaos of endless motion and an origin with no start, a scribble that is different among the many of people.

and i don’t quite like to call people ”people” but there is just no other word that is palpable, they are herds of seamless thinking. ripples of ignorance in continuum, who will break the vibration?, the transmittance?. and who threw the rock?

i have been busy with the world, observing those vibrations. sitting in any empty space within sight with my cup of coffee whether at home or outside, my feet drifts me towards emptiness only just so i can travel to another world, to break the continuum, to detach from the world’s essence, to travel to another world, a world with no sky nor ground, to be suspended in mid air feeling nothing. a complete numbness is what i desire. every step i take in this world is heavy. my feet are light and i walk abnormally fast that most of my friends complain of not being able to catch up to me thus my feet are not heavy  what’s heavy is my mind so i thought. my mind felt heavy i begged through my eyes for someone to understand the torment in such peculiarity. there were cords connected to every part of my body bringing the world to me. to feel the whole world inside of me, every little aspect of every little thing is continuously being processed. the wind it’s speed and texture, how the leaves changes as the winds does, the falling dead leaves and flowers, the crawling endless variety of bugs and insects. how can a such world exists separate from us, yet so connected to the point our daily activity and life choices effects them and to the worse odds end them. this stream of thoughts goes on until a weird form of life in flesh and bones shows up as the faces of creatures called humans and blocks that image. then instantly their eyes start speaking before their mouths, the wrinkles their lips make through their faces as they move, how their hands lifts up jumping right and left in completion to what the mouth speaks and what the eyes hide. but at that very moment the two images fuses into one. the two worlds shapes a single gigantic jigsaw. all the data is fed into me all at once. so a single encounter of a friend or stranger can keep my cords hooked in alert, in such connection that the winds and the trees doesn’t fall far from the humans in front of me.

these two worlds made into one inside of me keeps my head heavy, i keep walking fast head down trying shutting everything out yet failing. i have been angry at the world needing to split the connection. so focused on filling every minute of my day, when i realized that everything is connected to my soul rather than my brain and there is no way to split and travel to any other imaginative world no matter how bad i long for it. because this connection will always be within my soul. what i carried as a burden god meant for it to be a gift. an illustration of gods presence within each one of us. the strength to lift my heavy soul and raise my head up, to take in all the worlds there in i’m afraid is not given by god, because if it was it will never be realized. it can only be gained through pain and suffering so much that you have no choice but to sit and understand it, embrace it and instead of rising up to it, let pain be your best friend. let pain lift your character to the level of your gift. because failure is disguised as a gift with no character.

 

It’s simple yet it’s not

Sometimes we wish for a certain thing so much that we swim against the tide.

We strive for the sun so much we lose sense of it’s burning light.

We search for a warmer spot so inclined we tackle the winds.

We are left broken in a battle not our own.

We curse the tides, the sun and the wind for what they have done but a mere detachment of what’s to come.

I see them falling and I’m falling too.

I see them crying and I’m crying too.

I see them but not them me.

They wait for a salvation, for a king and crown. They wait to be made Queens. 

I wait not for a salvation.

I wipe my own tears. Batch my own pieces.

For i am not a princess nor a queen.

 a warrior. Yes! A one like no other.

The story of me

“My mother likes you, she sends her congrats for passing your subjects” my friend said as we exchanged our enthusiasm towards passing two of the hardest subjects of this semester, my reaction to her mother’s regards were the same as my reaction to every sweet talk i ever got: with cherry pink cheeks and “oh really?” and so i replied “she thinks your the strongest and most resilient of all of us” my friend noted at the end of our conversation. I was left wondering staring at the ceiling and the LED lights hung unplugged. Why do people see in me what i can’t see in myself? Suddenly all the remarks made about my personality from friends, family, acquaintances and most shockingly those who i didn’t even recognize but do recognize me. I remember a girl i barely knew once asking me ” are you the oldest in your family? ” i shook my head in denial as she added “because your a leader and people find it comforting to follow you instead of following themselves” 

I wish i could pause time when ever someone praise me for my strength, leadership or whatever they think they see and i don’t, whatever they think i have and they don’t. I’d like to claim my weakness, to claim my fragile state, and to stick to the black and white picture i see of myself. I have stood in corners observing people searching for the proper explanation of their psychology on life, their beliefs and theories. I have forgotten they can see me standing alone where if the wind picked me up I’d not fall but rise and where if it rained i would not run as they do in fact that’s when linger. They observed and waited for something to tangle me with in all of that knowing that because i stand alone no one will come to help me. They observed and i stayed. Unknowingly i was drawing a painting of scribbled lines and wavy circles they haven’t seen before, i was a musician who played so randomly well striking the piano tiles with the full strength of utter self content. What ever is the image i shaped bottom line was that they saw what i didn’t see in me. 

I have watched the full moon coming to full illumination through every moon cycle. I have watched and failed to see the moon is ever so intriguing, ever so beautiful ever and forever rises alone but does the moon know how strong it looks when it rises alone as the stars gather and watchs from far?  

I don’t know of the full moon but i know of what now have become the full me. The doubt will turn to strength and i will see in myself what stars see in a full moon.

Iuntima 

​End of the day, coming down with the cold i look at the pile of books filling my room floor feeling worn out i sit by those books hands around my crossed legs head tilted a little to the right anchored by the wall behind me a pose of surrender and despair. I talk to my books and say I rest my case and plead to you; tell me why have you steered me your way?  Why have you made me into this fragile hearted fickle minded person i am. 

So detached hardly even liking a person these days. A repulsive power against people string around me like a set of hola hoops it spins more powerfully and more erratically as anyone comes closer; an action like look down, slip away and sift out unseen usually comes to mind when people do come closer and i usually try discard them but end up forcing myself into hellos and kisses i find no meaning to, social encounters that i can’t wait to end even if i have nothing else to do. what is the solid ground that will give me comfort or at least a sense of belonging “Iuntima”? I know the feelings of strangeness is getting stronger than ever because now it’s something i can’t control and often not aware of. I realize that when people’s voice gets shattered before it reaches me and fade bit by bit, the background starts to blur, the voice of the wind calms me and as clickering of heels of girls annoy me. my dad feared this effect of overwhelming independence and of fake solidarity. A state of in between. I don’t know why I’m blaming my books – It’s only natural for a human to blame. Blaming my books is nevertheless invalid and unjustified, i have been lost in this world, i am lost in this world and as i continue to be me i will still be lost in this world for many years to come – my books are the only thing that kept me attached to solid ground and that gave me a link to this physical world. My books is where i have always found logic and a sense of (Iuntima – belonging). 

It’s often that our paths are predetermined with some slips and falls along the way our natural self not our personality for that is constantly changing as we grow but our innermost natural self is what follows those paths. 
Those paths are not structured yet they still lead to one end that being the discovery of who we are. If you find your way too quickly or too often then that is probably not your way in fact the losers are the ones who find their way and they never tell because they never really come to realize it.

A person with no title. 

In what do people find their motives? in what do people find logic? where do they find meaning?… At the end of each day i wonder this same thing. But i find that most people don’t look for logic in life, but follow an ordered spontaneity like a preset of what life is supposed to be. A terrace of how it should be. In the midst of all this i find my self hollow wondering why am i so different, finding a hard time accepting that this what we have here and what we live by is what logic supposed to be. 

The books on philosophy all join in at that to be irrelatable to the common understandings of your community is to be mad. A wack! A fault in design! But i believe that god created me and those who suffer the same as me like car makers making a limited design to show that this world is an endless continuum. It’s variations run through us not for us.


Logic is not hard to find, what is hard is the truth it unhides when found. The search for logic generates more and more questions and to answer them and find your own understanding, is to be ready for the next question to set sail. 

I do understand what this world is about, what people is about and that is the original problem i believe. To understand! This world is not made to be understood, it is too complex for us just so we don’t get Lost. It’s easier to get lost in the meaning than the question. It’s easier to understand the purpose of a normal maze with one exit than a maze with all doors open.

For Those of you who run hollow; have no base structure. Your maze is all open and the search is endless. 

My search is endless! 

The girl with no footsteps 

​Today i would like to write about my pink pin, and the fine line drawn by it’s 0.4 mm tip, it’s a radiant pastel pink – just like me that combination is hard to believe it could exist in one. the tip pigments the paper so smoothly as the round tip flows over the white paper extracting it’s motion from my fingers. i hate my fingers they are and unlike my body so thin and slender, skin is so transparent that you can easily count the veins on them – that’s not so bad really people showed admiration of that transparency and of My personality quite the same, a transparent one that draws admiration but hardly left in peace – I’m neither frightened nor okay with the situations i find my personality simultaneously creating for me as i live day by day – I’m in transcendent realm of thoughts – i haven’t been before, i don’t know which is which, what is bad n what is good, what is a rational human behavior and what’s query.

As i lay my head on the table, the pink strokes came into focus and and at the end of the line what i know is that i am a delicate soul. A fragile leaf drifting where ever the winds may take. A lone survivor of my own ship reck and i have lived to tell the tale. The tale of a girl with no footsteps.

I used to write with black pens only then i discovered colors. And then i hated colors  because they were too over rated so i got back to using only black pens and once in a while i pick up this pink one and it is not so over rated in fact it brings uniqueness, new vision and contrast to the black. This is in the same way how the stars only shines it’s uniqueness fully when the sky is
 deep in black. When there is no lights on the streets but the stars. Have you ever seen the stars on a black out night? No need for the words of a poet for the stars become the peot and the poem. simply breathtaking. Like the pink and black and like the stars on a black out night. We need something or someone of our own to contrast our uniqueness and overcast our flaws. And that can only be designed for us it could be derived from within us or from the world but it has to be for the individual for the sole and true person we are. Otherwise we will live delusional and misguided.

What it means to be mad?

The weight of my mind bares me down, it tangles up the stream of thoughts, the waves of emotions and my line of life all into one imbalanced point, a fine thread between being normal and being mad.
I can’t even see or feel that thread anymore, i neither know whether I’m normal or mad, I’m normal because i say I’m mad, (mad people often see themselves normal) i know I’m not normal because nothing on or in this earth is the way for me, but if i say I’m normal then I’m mad, and if i think in this pattern that must mean I’m mad.
I guess i lost that fine thread the moment i visualized it.
It appears to me in my friend’s smile, in my little brothers satisfaction, in my goals and in my efforts, it appears to me in myself, it appears in parallel, and in pyramidal distinction, it’s a fine thread but it’s the only thing that connects me to reality, to thinking, and to rationality but only in skepticism to all of what’s just said,  skepticism is a black line that approximates the fine thread of madness or in contrast of normality, it margins the madness when skepticism is in the fine law of existing, and the normality when skepticism in the queries of humanity is denied.
The stars are beautiful but they are the reck of something, they are still beautiful though the energy it holds, the distance it travels, it’s marvelous in the dreams they shed upon the eyes of the hopeless, is there any skepticism in those dreams?  But are there any laws that govern them? There is freedom in thought, there is freedom in skepticism, there is no law and normality is to deny what you can’t acquire, madness is to acquire what others skepticise.