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I felt her heartache. It was dramatic. An excerpt from a dream…

Dear love,

I have written you thousands of love letters in my head and they remain unread. You were all up to feeding your ego and I was the most effective stimulus for that. You just run to me so you could have someone to be there for you during your most lonesome night. I am used to it and I don’t understand how numb I am to tolerate the pain. There is this screaming voice deep down my hypothalamus telling me how weary I am, that I can’t be like this forever.

I have tried so hard to burn down bridges between us but every time you come to say hello, it is as if the broken bridges became passable. I wish this loathing is enough to make me stop loving you. I knew that I can never be reciprocated, that this shall always be comparable to a one-way street.

I wish you knew how much this hurts. I wish you have not come back. I know that you never care about my feelings. When will I ever learn?

I knew that loving you is like trying to sow seed in a barren nothingness, that no matter how hard I toil, it can never prosper. I knew that I’ll never have any place in your heart.

Sincerely,

XXXX

Photo credit: Fashionising.com

Dear cheerless you,

Why do you have to constantly hurt your feelings? I mean I understand you are going through a lot these days but why do you have to do all these? Why do you have to belittle yourself? Why do have to quit trying? Why do you have to choose staying in the corner contemplating about yesterday? Why do you have to think about the “what ifs”? Why do you have to torture yourself with insecurities? Why do you allow yesterday’s mistakes ruin you? Why do you have to be idle all day? Where’s the confidence? Where’s the spirit? Where’s the fighter in you? What happened to you?

Love,
The optimistic you

He was waiting for her at the corner.

He gave her that pearl-white-toothpaste-model smile and uttered “hi”. His voice was not-so-masculine but I can read the girl’s mind that she was happy to receive that friendly greeting.

The vehicles running north and south, people passing by, mouth conversing, steady posts serving as foundation of their meeting place, noisy murmur of motorcycles, all were witnesses while the two were waiting for a vehicle to take both of them home. I can sense that the girl was trying to record everything to her mind so it would vividly hang on her long-term memory.

She was nervous. She was trying so hard to stabilize herself―so stupid that she was crossing her fingers and was hiding it behind just to gain back her normal pulse rate. I bet she never dated any guy yet. I guess she considers herself ugly and her physical insecurities made her abandon her self-confidence. But, I think she was forcing her brain cells to work hard, commanding them to generate a single word to engage him in conversation. Her stare at him makes me compare her eyes to a photography camera stealing pictures of his smile―a smile that invites her to forever stare at him. She had that tense smile. I could feel the tension running through her veins.

“Calm down, girl. Your nervousness will trigger acids to your stomach and that might cause your breath to smell like a raw cabbage”, I whispered.

The vehicle that would take both of them home is finally here. They sat close. I bet that doubled her anxiety.

(Source: disah)

I’d like to write a book about the whole world. I’d like to collect small stories from people all over the world and then make them into a big human diary. There is a phrase that I’ve heard, “tapping into the subconscious”. Perhaps it is time to tap into the global subconscious, roam deep inside the human minds that constitute the planet.

— Pavorst

“There is a magic to writing, to being messy and going beyond the boundaries of lines. The scent of ink, the touch of paper, the crease as a page is turned and the backs of hundreds of words running through the neural networks in your head. It’s an experience that kisses the boundary between consciousness and unconsciousness. It is a place where colours and people contort, where imagination is translated into a raw line sketch”.

—pavorst