Monthly Archives: May 2014

Deja Vu



I find myself writing yet another letter to you. Admist this chaos that furls up in me, I am helpless. I am utterly, pathetically, unrealistically helpess. Trust me, I am the last of human beings who would’ve wanted this. But I am a deploring victim, I admit this. If I had the chance, I know I would run away. More than myself, I would save you the trouble. This is trouble.

I find myself writing yet another letter to you. For this, forgive me. I wish not any inconvenience yet I am deeply perturbed that I cannot fathom the extent of what has penetrated to the depth of my soul. My heart reeks of this inevitable and spontaneously alluring drug that drags me right back to where I started. Where I started, you wonder? I started from me. Where have I ended up? You.

Thus, I find myself writing yet another letter to you. I am drowning in these words hence I shall drown you too. Why should I suffer alone? How could I have saved myself?

But now I find myself writing yet another letter to you. You have opened a rusty chamber of my existence. This may be quite intimidating. I say this, for this not only erupts a volcano of panic in your mind (Oh the mind is such an anarchist) but more of a tsunami in my mind. I indulge in fear so fondly. My dear, I am afraid. Even more so, as you cannot save me. “You cannot save the damsel if she is in love with her distress”, eh? This sweet dream shall fade away with the gradual relapse to sanity, then what shall I do? Where shall I seek refuge. For now, you are my refuge.

Oh gosh, I find myself writing yet another letter to you. I am catching at a straw, holding on to the wisp of smoke that once permeated through your lips, slithered through your throat and seeped into your lungs. I have lived in the illusion of strength. But my walls crumble down and the roof tumbles on me when I peek into my empty heart. I rattle myself against the silence in my ears and the hollowness in my eyes. Where do I go? What do I do?

Therefore, I find myself writing yet another letter to you. I have my hands up. I am unable to comprehend the extent of damage that has been done. I wish not to hover over the ashes of the grand garden that is now nothing but a cemetery. I am sorry, love. But I am who I have become, by choice and by fate. Not that I am remorseful, no. But I am torn apart even before the tragedy has unfolded. I am scattered anew, before I could figure out how to put the pieces back together. I am in shambles. I am a debris, a mess, a dumpster. Oh you vicious old menace, you! Nonetheless, I am in your debt for bleeding on to more pages of the epic tragedy I call Life. You are a beautifully horrific hamartia. You, my dearest, are my fatal flaw. Thank you, for happening to me.




I never knew someone’s smile could be nebulously profound to me. Yes, of course there is this elating feeling that follows the smile that you bring to someone’s face. But this was special in a way I was not fairly accustomed to.
Somehow, she seemed important. She had developed this place that ensured quality and importance. Her aura was original. Something about her soul shouted out loud that she was not someone to be taken lightly.
There was something about her eyes that plead to be understood… Oh! Her eyes! Those beautiful eyes shaped to perfection. The warmth radiated from them with all the world had to offer. They danced animatedly when some spark lit up within her. They dimmed like a dying amber, the spark then remotely dormant, with ashes and coal to mourn for…
They were not the eyes of an angel, no. They were the eyes of a human, who felt, saw and showed everything that was humanly possible. And if you looked in to her eyes long enough, if she’d let you (which she rarely did), it would be like staring into the broken pieces of a mirror.
The girl who so fondly indulged in solving mysteries, herself was a mystery; not to be solved. A paradox, perhaps. For letting someone glare at your soul, with all it’s scattered fragments, is dauntingly horrifying! What if, God forbid, someone attempts to lay a finger on the spot that ached the most? All the years of concealment would drown; all in vain! She’d dare not let that happen. Because vulnerability is vile.
So she smiles, rarely co-ordinating with her eyes. But when her eyes shone, no smile could be compared to that shine, that light; that iridescent moonlight. Her eyes had so many stories to tell, and all I wanted was to read those stories, absorb them and live them, one at a time, for the rest of my life.