Known Stranger

I feel like I have
This scar on my face
That activates fear
Pain hurt and anger
When my senses
Pick up the presence
Of a known stranger

No One

Your mind turns blank when he walks around. Your lips utter a stutter of resignation, betraying the thundering heartbeat inside your chest. Control yourself, your inner conscience tells you. Remember that you are a black sheep covered in cloudy white wool.

And no one can see the real color beneath your skin. Not unless you deliberately show them.

Your hands reach out, attempting to touch the other without your brain’s consent. Although you know that the mask will be broken once you break the barriers, you still try. You ache and yearn for the recognition of that special someone, and hopefully… Just, hopefully, he belongs to the 4% of the world’s population that you can show your true colors to. That he’ll accept you for being you.

Mid-way, your hand stops. Your heart accelerates even faster, but now the time has gone to pass. He walks away, not even noticing your presence. You feel downtrodden, defeated, but you lug your heavy feet to your next lesson. Remember, your conscience says. Your life is planned out for you. You’re going to get married to a beautiful girl and have little children who’ll laugh as they run around the playground screaming, “Daddy! Daddy! Look at me!”

Sometimes, you wished you could just slap Conscience in the face for being such a bitch.

As you lay awake beneath the heavenly moonlight, staring at the white ceiling, you imagine a life together with him, with matching tuxedos and ringing bells. You imagine waking up to his smile as he looks at you adoringly. You imagine caressing his lustrous hair in an endearing manner. You imagine. You imagine. And then you begin to dream.

But, as they say, dreams turn into nightmares when you wake up.

In class, you hear sounds of mockery as stormy thoughts brew amongst those who could care less about your kind. You painfully support them, for who else would become friends with you? You’re hurt, but you cannot cry. You’re sad, but you have to fake a laugh.

You wished he was there to make it all better.

Whenever you see him walk by with a girl, there’s something in your heart that tugs at you. It was not fear, nor anger, nor hurt, nor jealousy. Perhaps, it was a combination of all of these emotions, thrown into a bowl to make rojak. And you swallowed it whole.

No one could understand that these emotional qualities are true. No one knows as you hide behind the lockers everyday pretending to be part of the scenery when you were actually trying to follow up on his everyday conversation. No one knows that whenever you were free, you admire the words he uploaded onto his blog.

No one can know. No one.

Loss

On days like this, I often wish you were around. I lounge around on the bed of someone else's, in a state of absolute loss, absolute uncertainty. When I look up at the bland, white ceiling, I see no trace of the memories of my life, only a clean canvas for something beautiful. Yet, as the old monsters from under the bed come back to haunt me, with the dark past, stolen hearts and words of trash, I get scared. It is desperation that drives me to the corner. But then, I notice that the light has gone out, and all around are the rumors of ghosts and ghouls. Tomorrow, they say. Wake up tomorrow, and it'll be another happy day. My mind wills my eyes  shut, but, somehow or the other, the darkness reverberates throughout my inner core. I wait. For eons, I sat and wait as the silence rings in my ears. I had no clock. I knew none of the time. The only thing I knew, was that I felt that a piece of me was missing, lost to the crows that mock my existence. I knew that daybreak wouldn't mend the wounds but merely cover them up. I knew that when daylight shines into the room, it was a signal for me to open my eyes and shut my heart. On days like this, I often wish you were around to hear me breathe, to stop my soul from decaying away, because you are that missing piece. My dear, you don't come from the moon, nor the stars, nor the sun, nor the oxygen that we breathe. You, come from the birds that chirrup happiness into the air. You, come from trees that shelter those who fear the rain. You, come from a myriad of spectacles that life has to offer. Tomorrow, won't be a happy day, but it'll be a day where happiness rings as loud as the bells do. Tomorrow, my canvas will finally be filled with color, and then, your mysterious face will finally shed the light.

Target

Amidst the chatter of the excited, a figure looms behind the wall. He stares at the luminous object in his hand. His heart thumps, as he accepted the reality of his future actions. He understood that failure would mean death. This stark contrast to the joyous atmosphere made his stomach lurch. If he should turn back, he would face the wrath of his heart for everything that the “target” has done. He never wanted to live like that again, ever.

With a courageous yet timid step, he entered the room, sliding his possession into his pockets. No one were to see this, except the two of them. As he put one foot forward after another, journeying to his possible end, he gulped in anticipation.

And there he was, facing the back of the “target”. No turning back now, he thought. It was now or never. Silently, he tapped on the shoulder of the “target”. As the “target” turned around, he whipped out his shiny object…

He saw the fear in the “target”’s dark brown eyes. He knew he had lost. The letter in his hand was rejected without a single word.

People Like Us - Kelly Clarkson

I feel dead.
This song is probably the only thing keeping me alive.

Future

Whence we leave the ground aloft
for far reaching heights
We leave behind a solemn wake
of old, haughty nights

Never let go now
and never let go again
A bird must fly far
lest it begins to rain

Touch and feel
hurt, pain and anger
but don't forget the greatness
that happiness linger

Don't cry, dear child
you'll soon see an explosion
of wonderful memories gone
when you make the Decision

Romance

“Romance”, in the olden days, had a completely different meaning. A romantic poem in the 18th century would never start with “Roses are red, violets are blue”, but rather associated with generic feelings and emotions of oneself. William Wordsworth, a great poet of the time, wrote a poem about remembrance and longing titled “Daffodils”. Indeed, the present-day usage of the word “romantic” has been significantly changed. Yet, it is one of the most widespread terms throughout the globe. Many other languages, such as Chinese and Thai, adopt their own use of the word “romantic” to describe something warm and cozy for a couple to share. However, we all forget the origins of this word, and look for something far beyond our reach.

Sports Day is soon approaching, and with it I harbor, as with the previous years, ill thoughts and emotions relating to the present-day romance. Two years ago, it was the exact same day when I heard the last words ever spoken to me by someone I had adored for a great period of time. The trauma has never stopped, merely receded and popped itself again over different periods of time. It is around this time of year that gets me unusually frightened, lonely and lost in the world. I question the validity of my existence, of my life in Mother Earth’s hands. Still, I never found an answer. To my past self, romance has brought me to a slaughterhouse, tearing apart every single hope and dream for the future. I feel the desolation, and never would it subside.

To my present self, however, romance has been brought back to the Middle Ages. Those experiences has shown me, in vivid and very emotional terms, that my emotions and not my tendencies are the key to a successful romance. I have learnt, so to speak, of how to come out of the shell I had once lived in, grow up in a world where the sky can darken any minute and empathize with others. For once, I feel that I am part of a loved and loving community, and for that I would be eternally grateful.

And yet, the past is holding me back from making any moves.

I had never been one to hide my feelings. It was rudimentary for my expressions to showcase any color my brain and heart exuded. Yet, this time, I’ve been careful to hide everything, for fear of a good friendship gone awry. I want to tell a person whom I fancy the truth, but I am afraid of a repeat of the past, even though I know he is alright with me -- my personality, my nature.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do anymore. It’s like being stuck between a wooden bridge, where the next plank to walk on is not there, while the last plank you’ve walked on has just fallen off.

My friends call these people who I adore my “targets”. I am afraid of doing something that would make me live up to such a trashy judgement.

Tell this poor delusional boy what to do.