~iota

"We were just friends, Who spoke like lovers. And that seemed to be enough For two teenagers Who were scared to love one another" She was dainty, like the bud of lilac With a wisp of innocence In the curls of her hair Unfathomable affection In the depths of her eyes And an undying reassurance In the curve of her smile For ages, we held back Shrugging when people asked What we were For we were scared Drenched in apprehension Of losing what we had On a moment of doltishness Of being whimsical. Only to gaze at the midnight moons Vehemently wondering what we could be.

Confused . I'm confused Strangled by my own thoughts Betrayed, Allied musings Had not bestowed The helping hands Rather a bottomless pit Is where I am Consumed by my blindness And unheard wails of helplessness I pray for this train of thought to end To derail for good And let me be.

Through the memory lane. Yesterday, my heart asked my brain, "What's your first memory?" Although seemingly random and abstract, the question invoked unfathomable curiosity in me, and I began to ponder the idea at length. It occurred to me that my first memory, ever, in which I can remember myself making concious decisions was the one when I was in preschool.  There were tire tracks on the dried mud on the school ground from somebody's terrible attempt at turning a car. I walked along the tracks, side by side with my partner in crime, neither of us with the slightest care about the sun that  blazed above. Departing and then rejoining, we laughed all afternoon at our whimsical pleasures .

I watched as he walked joyfully down the street with a bag of veggies. The timer was about to run out and the blue count gradually changed to purple. It will, in time change to orange and then red; marking his death.  This was something that always came up in my musings. Why would a supreme power, if any, give us such a sense? - The ability to know when a peer's life ends. What good will it ever do? I sat in my usual spot in the diner and asked for a plate of bacon and some coffee. The waitress paused for a moment and walked away to the counter. I plugged in my earphones and resumed my playlist. Interrupting, the waitress gently dropped the plate on my table, audaciously showing how much she cared and parted. Her face is devoid of the faintest smile. Why can't people just smile? That was about a week ago. But today, something felt different. Good different. I noticed it once I got out of my apartment. The old lady selling flowers down the street took ...

Prosaic Musings By someone's suggestion, I subsurviently adopted the coping mechanism to observe my emotions rather than succumbing to her grapple. The feeling of grief have been under my control by this very method for a very long time, at least I thought so. Although I found myself being compared to a tin hearted being by my very conscience, I realized that such can't be the case, at least, with me, when I broke down against the face of despair that fate had in stock.

The lover that was. The house. "I just don't love you anymore." I fought the catch in my throat as she stood there, her beautiful face, with a visible paucity of emotions. When I walked out, soaked in despair, even my proudest veins pined for those lips to call me back. The mountains. The squeak of the wipers usually bothered me. Maybe more than it would anybody else, but tonight, it didn't. It helped fight the deafening silence inside the cabin.  She wasn't the greatest fan of hairpin curves and the steep drops, and maybe that's what curbed me from driving to my favorite spot off the city. The Ephemera. The thick fog and the golden sunshine gave an etheral aura to the summit, the cold air that I breath championing the spot a place among the heavens. The bone chilling drop only a few feet away, awed the lover in me.

The Bucket List. "Three months. We're sorry, but we did the best we could. It was too late." The words echoed through my ears as if from the end of a long corridor. I still believe that I had put up a good fight against cancer. But I lost. Nevertheless, I had three months before I die. Three months to live. The bus ride home was rather silent. People seemed to smile at me. Or was it just me trying to find a bright side? I didn't know. At home, I went and washed my face. A bald man looked back at me. The chemo had completely gotten rid of my hair. The pile of medicine on my dinner table were now pointless. I dumped all of it into the trash and collapsed on the sofa.   I never turned the lights on. The TV seemed to play something. I didn't want to watch it, but playing it in the background have a relief from the silence which seemed so deadly. It was way over my regular bedtime. Yet tonight, I didn't feel sleepy, nor hungry. I felt hel...