Picture My Life

For Intellect. For Emotion. For Substance.

Posts tagged haiku

203 notes

Love is often feared because it is constant. There is a thrill about falling, because in order to let yourself fall you’re forced into faith, into believing that there is someone waiting to catch you. But the fall is endless. Instead the thrill is maximized with every passing moment, every endeavor, every new step towards the profession of love. The first touch, the first time you hold hands. When you start to explore each other, inside and out, the tingling sensation that ripples across your skin, the grasping tug at your heart. Love is about conquering fears. Allowing yourself to trust, leaving yourself vulnerable, opening up the parts of yourself you’ve spent a lifetime barricading. It’s leaving behind insecurities, lowering inhibitions and swallowing the bitter taste of passion without feeling the need to cringe. Love is accepting faults, not theirs, but your own. The understanding that perfection is imperfect, forever is merely a lifetime and broken hearts are inevitable. It’s the conscious decision to become powerless, putting your life in the hands of someone else because otherwise you’d be shattered. It’s getting to know yourself, peeling off the mask you’ve been hiding behind and allowing the truth to rush over you. Love is an endless experience.

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Where has my mind gone? Seems I’ve lost touch with my own sanity. It’s been quite some time since I last remember the tease of a lucid rationale. You see, I used to be a writer. At least, I used to call myself one. There was a time when the words would flow through my fingertips. Every letter inching its way onto a screen, one right after the other, forming words and making sense of some kind of emotion. Now these words are lost. Or maybe I’ve used them all up. Maybe I’ve overdosed. I used to get high off my own mental jargon, a soliloquy of inner turmoil so suffocating it made my heart bleed. I used to fiend off emotions that lay trapped between text and context, finding salvation in a written form of creed. Now these words are baited by the swift breeze of being, of living a life so tainted with busy, it becomes work. Writing has become a chore, an agonizing servitude. What once was passion has turned into a fading euphoria.

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102 notes


With age comes wisdom. Today, I am wise enough not to trust, prudent enough to embrace the wall I’ve spent my whole life building. I’ve learned to depend on my instincts and mask nervous butterflies with resilience. If I counted age by the number of friends at my side, I would be infantile. If these years were chapters, I’ve spent too much time writing of anger. Every year is a reminder that life is too short to dwell and just long enough to enjoy the moment. Today, I am wise enough to love more than hate, surrounding myself with others lucky enough to love as much as I do. To those who circle in and out, your time will come to stay. I’ve learned timing is everything and everyone is on their own schedule. If I counted age by the number of lovers I thought I had, I would be ancient. If I counted the ones that mattered, I would have only one birthday to celebrate. If these years were lyrics, I haven’t spent enough time listening to the love songs. With age… comes gratitude.

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My heart is soaked in defeat, drowning in this magnitude of self-doubt and loathing. Feels like I’ve fallen too far out of the reach for kindness and into a disparity amongst souls as lost as mine. I’m overwhelmed with un-triumphant battles in a war too trifling to win. This life is expressionless, devoid of meaning and lacking passion. Where does one find the will to live when it is lacking of will to start?

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There’s something about writing that doesn’t feel honest anymore. I sit in front of a screen, fingers typing away on a keyboard, writing an infinite number of words and yet… they’re all meaningless. Maybe writing isn’t as pure as I used to think it was. With all this scrutiny, the fear of sounding vulnerable just turns these words into shallow holes devoid of any significance. I remember once listening to a song just to hear the lyrics, just to feel the tight grasp of the verses suffocating my soul with longing and relatablity. How simple words could capture an emotion so vividly, leaving me a sobbing mess of sentiment. In and out of the context of language came the taste of love and lust, the very essence of passion, all inscribed like scripture. Faith had a definition engraved in bereaving hearts and lifeless souls that found refuge in romanticized jargon and home amidst the chorus of colloquy. Our words have become so far removed from deity that we’ve grown accustomed to calling them politics, so formulated and barren, they could have no evocative expression but to assume the form of dogma.

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I’m a mix of awe and fear at how complacent I’ve become by hunger. The act of thirst itself feels like too much of a chore. I have to wonder, is this how the underprivileged live, indifferent to their starvation, unmoved by their body’s longing? I can hear the bellowing cries of my stomach and the parched stillness of my breath as my eyes watch, carefully, every shadow of sunlight. But as it fades behind mountain canvases and sets the dawning of moon, these aches become like refuge. This hunger becomes home. The day’s aches are marked by resting survival, a sense of endurance and accomplishment. I can live tomorrow. I can be without sustenance, persisting on the mere essence of weakness alone. Hope. That I can make it minute by minute, hour by hour, and as the sun sets I find myself indulging only in the taste of satisfaction. I am a survivor. 

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Sometimes I convince myself that I’m in need of religion. Other times sex can do the trick. Then there are moments like these, moments when I feel absolutely insatiable. And although they are fleeting, these transitory occurrences seem to happen more often than not. I’m in a constant search for fulfillment, invariably disappointed by my lack of sustenance. I’m a sinner craving for the appetite of a saint yet loitering amidst the hunger of infidelity. I can’t recall the last time I felt whole, but merely the essence of an emotion I’ve since longed for. This yearning, a burning desire relishing inside me, chars the very edges of my heart. Life has never felt more disastrous, love has never seemed so bare and faith has since lost reprieve. 

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