Some Nights.

Some nights you try to convince yourself that you never loved her, but that it was only the familiarity of her laughter in a room full of strangers which drew you in, that the twinkle in her eyes was only so endearing because it reminded you of the night sky, but then you get up to look out the window and all is dark. The moon has hidden behind a curtain of grey clouds and the stars seem to have dimmed. You laugh as you realize that even the universe doesn’t know what to do without her- how can you expect to be able to put yourself together ever again? And as the moon peeks out guiltily from behind its veil at that moment, you start to miss her with a ferocity you never knew your tired bones held.


The Search For Madness.

“It was a hot summer night, right in the middle of July, the day I decided to run away.
I’d had enough, you know? Didn’t want to be pushed around by anyone anymore.
I knew what I wanted in life, I knew I was different, and I was ready to go satiate my wanderlust, find my destiny.
And what was that?
It was to look for madness.
Pure madness.
The kind that is untouched by greed and untainted by grief.
The kind of madness that is alluring and heartbreaking at the same time, the madness that exists in the stars and in the stargazers, in the moon and it’s worshipers, the kind that only increases with the coming dawn, fueled by the golden of the morning.
The madness of the waves as they reach out to kiss the shore over and over again, of the ocean as it tries to caress the moon in vain.
Sweet madness, filled with melancholy.
I thought I had it all figured out, how I’d catch the morning bus out of that sleepy old town, off to big cities and adventures in the pursuit of madness. But the stars has their own plan for me, because sitting in the long green grass of the park I had played in all my life, I found you.
Eyes closed but facing upwards, you were the definition of peace; you looked as if you were a part of the grass and flowers itself, rooted to the ground and so, so still, but then you opened your eyes and I fell headfirst into their grey chaos. Your expression held such agony, it clenched at my heart, and yet I was mesmerized, enchanted, cursed, unable to look away.
That night, I went looking for madness and found it.
But what I didn’t realize was that madness could ever be so beautiful, so dangerous, that madness could ever be you.”


Image taken from here.

 

 

Night And Day.

It’s 2:22 AM, and it’s been an hour since she went to bed, but you’re still up, aren’t you, still sitting in front of that screen, bleary eyed and exhausted, listening to this band she never liked but you’ve fallen in love with?
You scroll through your Instagram feed, head bobbing to the tune, when you come across a post where someone has likened their beloved to both the sun and the moon. It is a beautiful piece of writing, one that makes your heart ache with the wish that it was you who had written something so filled with emotion, but then you stop, and you think about her again.
She cannot be the moon, you think.
No, she is entirely the sun.

Bright.

Fiery.

Forever. 

The moon waxes, and the moon wanes, you see, and some nights, when the darkness gets too much, it even disappears.
But the sun, my darling?
It’s permanent, and so is she, with her tempers and her flares; the sole point that anchors your universe, providing warmth on a chilly day and thawing your frozen heart.
She’s strawberries, and she is sunshine, and berries and unadulterated laughter and the smell of freshly cut grass.
You’re oranges and lemons, and the melancholy darkness of a crescent moon, when all is quiet, as if the leaves themselves mourn the disappearing of that sliver of silver in the night sky.
As different as night and day, as east and west, but don’t they say, opposites attract?


Image taken from Tumblr.

Off-track Musings.

I’ve always been able to tell when a thunderstorm is on the horizon, even up to a day before it occurs, and I’ve never been afraid of thunderstorms even as a little kid.
But tonight I am.
I’m scared, and I’m terrified.
The thunder resounds in my head until my heart is beating hard enough to match each peal, and I clench my eyes in an effort to calm down the erratic beating but tears leak out in torrents more furious than those pouring outside, the dark clouds I so adore have covered the beautiful full moon and it feels like I have no guidance tonight without the moonlight and the stars.
My room feels strangely lifeless without the moonbeams entering through the window and dancing in elaborate patterns on the rug on my floor, the one you bought from an old woman who could see auras, who shied away from me and my colorless void of an aura; you brought it from her anyways, I remember you calling her delusional under your breath; after all, how could I, of everyone out there have a colorless aura, I, who couldn’t live without colors, who couldn’t bear monotony and blandness?
Little did you know at the time that she was right. All those colors I surrounded myself with were nothing but a desperate attempt to obtain the colors I lacked inside, but oh, I wasn’t supposed to think about you at all, I get off-tracked so easily these days.
Ironic, isn’t it, because if I could focus on one thing, it would be on getting you out of my head, my system, my life, but it isn’t helping, I can’t sleep anyways, so I get up, and despite my fears, climb out of the window to the roof, the rain pelting me with your memories with each raindrop hitting my bruised skin. I sit on the roof edge, trying not to think about how you’d always plead with me to get off the edge, you were afraid I’d fall down.
The rain makes it hard for me to light my cigarette, but I try again and again, and after countless unsuccessful attempts, I fling the pack and the lighter off the roof into the grass below, and with nothing else to do, I just sit there, I sit there shivering, soaking and drowning in your memories.


Image taken from here.