Daffodils


Daffodils

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Fading


I’m nothing but a number of days. A few hours, some minutes, a handful of second. With each passing one, a part of me fades away. Never to return.

Ever.

The hands of the clock tick on steadily, going around in circles. They pass by the same numbers, but each time is different.

Time.

That precious friend. That greatest enemy. So infinite yet very limited. All mine, yet all yours.

Mine.

All the days, hours, minutes and seconds. And all that I want to do with them. Everything and anything; and yet, nothing at all.

Nothing.

Completely empty. Completely useless. Darkness. Disappearing into even more nothingness.

Fading.

(Inspired by Al-Basri and one of my bosses)

Choice


Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.

Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha

You don’t feel like talking to me. No problem.

I don’t mind. Not really. Not anymore.

It’s your life; you’re free to choose who you talk to.Or not talk to. I, on the other hand, don’t seem to have a choice in this matter. And so, I can only grieve.

Because if I had to, I wouldn’t make this choice. Unless I had a damn good reason. Maybe even not then.

Little by little, though, I realize I do have a choice: not waiting around on you.

Works for me. I don’t have time to be miserable any way.

Scatterbrain


“Our life is what our thoughts make it.”

~Marcus Aurelius

So that makes it crappy, confusing and random?

Ugh.

Sometimes, I wish I could draw. Then, my life would have been artsy. Instead of sitting in front of a blank monitor screen or scrolling mindlessly through “funnies”, I could take up the pencil and doodle out my thoughts.

Words are my only crutch to make sense of the world, though. But the letters seem to have taken root in my brain, deep, refusing to bear fruit. So all I have are vines and tangles; crap that I’m unable to cut through.

Also, not everyone has the balls to call themselves an artist unless they have got the goods to back it up. But every other person seems to be a writer now.

I need to stop being such a scatterbrain…