A white piece of cloth fetches no value.

Painted by success,

tainted by failure.

That rag becomes priceless.

One of a kind. Just like you.

nostalgia is the prism that elevates the beams of experience into the aura of existence

No I’ve only got you.

I cannot read minds. Yet as I clapped my hands and she tapped her feet, the echos read to me the tale of her heart.

Trees dance and birds sing                                                                                                                Unaware of the joy it brings.                                                                                                              Across the woods a phantom gust blows                                                                                        Along the path where the river flows.                                                                                              A crimson car crashes.

Mighty structures of concrete and steels                                                                                        Men in desperate search for thrills.                                                                                            Flashing billboards and traffic lights                                                                                              Deep into the sleepless nights.                                                                                                          A red rose rots. 

Divided,

We are in a concrete jungle. 

The familiar taste of lead fills his mouth. The smell of caffeine wafts through the dusty air. In the dim light, he can barely discern the outlines of the yellow pages on his desk. It is always frustrating, the feeling of being so close to completion, yet unable to come up with the perfect ending to a chapter, to a book. 

“A writer’s block,” he muses to himself. He had always attempted to understand this phenomenon, but it still remains a mystery. A mental barrier which prevents him from thinking clearly. In addition, for him, it is the responsibility and emotional attachment he has towards his characters, which brings about fear that he is unable to give them an ending which they deserve. 

The final paragraph of a book which he worked on for 6 years, it should be natural, shouldn’t it? Compared to the hardships faced building up to the climax, and delivering a epic climax, tying loose ends should be easy, right? 

It isn’t. It never will be. No longer will there be moments of sadness and joy shared with his characters. He will move on to a new book, they will remain in the old one. He will never be satisfied, but to the best of his ability, he vows to give everyone a conclusion that we all deserve. 

The movement of his pencil syncs with the flow of time. A wry smile of his face, his heart pounds. The final piece to complete an outstanding jigsaw puzzle is about to be written. May it be the most memorable one. 

Prom @ Marina Bay Sands. Written on: 4.08pm

A broken canvas.

A blob of blue and one of green,                                                                                                        Colours that only few have seen. 

The imperfections in something so pure                                                                                        Comes with it so much allure. 

Pain is an artist’s greatest brush.                                                                                                      Soaked in tears,                                                                                                                                    He goes to work.                                                                                                                                  There is no need to rush.                                                                                                                     

Will time heal all wounds? There is much to learn.                                                                      Perhaps, it leads to a dirty cyan.

I’m only eighteen years old. I don’t think I truly understand love. But I genuinely believe that I love you. I still do. This “love” is unique in its own way. You were first person to ever love me, and you were the first person that I can say that I love. First love. 

Immersed in the wave of change, the pressure of fitting in, I chanced upon your hand whilst flailing about trying to stay float. I did not know you completely. But as the days, weeks, months and finally years gone by. I learnt more about you, your charms and flaws. You accepted me for who I was, but changed me as well. For the better. There were times we fought but, compared to the memories and joy we shared together, they were nothing. We never truly knew what we were committing ourselves to then, but things worked out well because as fate would have it,  as we got to know each other better, we were happy, very happy with each other. You helped steady the waters, settle me down, and were my support and joy for the past 5 years. If not for you, I could never have overcome the emotional and physical obstacles that were in front of me. I truly hoped that I managed to at least offer a percent of what you have done for me. 

Words, at least for now, cannot truly express how I am feeling. During sleepless nights I lay on my bed reminiscing, staring blankly at the ceiling. Stacked on my shelf are notes and books, threatening to spill out anytime. On my desk sits a desktop. Earphones and wires everywhere. Clothes will welcome my feet should I leave my bed. The clock ticks, each sound reaching my ears in longer periods. Yet within these four walls, the room is empty. 3.45a.m. I can’t hear the clock anymore. 

I have way too many flaws. I am aware of that. I don’t think I am mature or competent enough to be a good boyfriend. For now, I shall attempt to work on myself, understand myself, and improve myself. I cannot bear to hurt another person whom I love dearly ever again. 

You ask me, “Why do you love me?” I cannot give a definite, complete answer. Because to me, love isn’t something that comes about from a intangible connection with another person. And it isn’t easy to describe something intangible. But I am certain about one thing.

 

I like you for your charms, but I love you for your flaws.

 

You are a wonderful person, and you deserve someone so much better. I don’t even know if you, or anyone else for that matter, will ever read this, but if you do, I want you to know that you will always be my first love, my friend, and someone that I will always respect and admire for the rest of my life. I know it had been a difficult period, but I truly believe that this is for your own good. You will find someone way better than me, someone who is more mature, more caring and more supportive in many more ways than I have been. This is painful. It causes my heart to sink, causes my head to feel heavy. Thinking about our terrible circumstance, I cannot help but bite my lips in frustration. hey but if it doesn’t hurt, it wasn’t genuine. Right? right? 

 

thank you. thank you so much for everything. thank you. *virtual hugs*

 

We love each other, but we cannot be together. 

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