20.37

First lovers do die.

 

They die every day.

Time; fire touching clay.

 

Each recollection,

Fails to bring to vision

Any sort of authentic

Feeling of affection.

 

That feeling, exactly

That, died long ago.

Dying down slowly, like

Falling flakes of snow.

 

They’re dead,

But they live on.

 

Walking to and fro;

Distant shades of

What is no more.

 

Twenty years,

And maybe more.

 

First lovers die,

Just like any other

Thing that lives.

 

Sooner or later,

They have to

Say goodbye.

 

 

17.19

let’s talk again about our past

and how everything didn’t make sense

and how we almost lost our minds

because growing up was a pain

and the truths we learned hurts

and how our imbalanced hormones

made us stay up all night

wondering why life is so bad

of course it isn’t bad now

but it used to, or it just felt

bad.

 

let’s talk again like we used to,

though I don’t know you like I used to

because we both changed a lot

and still we change, day to day

Time

We’re thrown into this world,
And we weren’t given options.
We can not, and did not, choose to live.

We are waiting for death to take us away,
From the bitter suffering that we enjoy.
Or we’re not waiting, maybe it’s only me,
But I guess I’m not waiting for death alone.

Tonight might be the night I leave life,
To enter and endless, empty, void;
It’s okay, I have no regrets.
If tonight I die, then I die.

Tomorrow might be the day I die,
The day I write my farewell letter;
Maybe time to say goodbye, forever.
If tomorrow I leave life, so be it.

But in between birth and death,
There is, and there has to be,
Love.

you ramble a lot

we weren’t ourselves
last night, and night was
our sole companion
as we waited for the dark
to end

i wasn’t being me
i didn’t scrutinize every
small fault we did as humans
in this dull and boring world
neither were you
you weren’t the whiny
surface dwelling
half hearted achiever
you said you always were
we were different
we didn’t recognize
ourselves

you cried that night
about small details, like
the fact that i didn’t love you
and your tears were warm
they fell on my shoulders
down to my limp arms
to my fingertips that
wiped them off your eyes

then you found yourself
in my arms, still saddened
by such small details
i pulled up the blankets
and caressed your hair
you haven’t washed them
but i didn’t really care
from time to time, i would
let my lips land on your face
but that didn’t do anything
you were still crying

and so we just froze like that
lying next to each other
one more quiet than the other
but clearly both surrendered
to the strong pull of
desperation

The time I thought I was lonely no more

These few poems are some of the things that go on in
my mind when I think about you and what goes on between
us. They’re nothing great, I could write these up in a few
minutes, but the ones I post here are special. Writing poetry,
about you, is cathartic.

One of the poems here were written before I met you;
autumn tiba. I put it in here simply because I met you in the
summer. I also refer to you as ‘Rembulanku’, because you
bring light and serenity to a clouded and dark mind like mine.

 _____, I want you to know that you’ve done more
than you thought to me. You’ve brought life to this lonely
wanderer; and now I am lonely no more. Thank you.

We will all die, we will all be forgotten. As do other
mortal beings. But _____, your name, what you’ve done to
me, what you’ve given me, how you loved me; they’re all
going to be immortal through my lines of poetry.


Those are the few paragraphs that closed a book I once made. It was a collection of poems I made for, my then, lover. At the time I felt happy, although it didn’t last long. We went our separate ways and are now strangers again. The book was never talked about ever again, maybe it’s in a box full of other mementos and maybe it’s now just scrap paper somewhere in a landfill.

I learned that it was wrong for me to put my happiness inside another’s palms, unprotected and taken for granted, I developed a sense of safety. That safety was fragile and it could at any moment just break apart, when it did I became cold and cynical. The few relationships after this one was a roller coaster of feelings and ended either abruptly or awkwardly because of such cold mentality.

I was wrong to find consolation by creating a barrier between myself and Others. I kept people close, but never let them know me, the ‘true’ me, the self I suppress to become this lifeless shell which is devoid of meaning. I subtly broke off relationships with a lot of people, and I distanced myself from people I felt could hurt me again. I was hurt, then I sought to not get hurt by inflicting pain on others.

For a time I thought that to live a life so misanthropic was a safe way of living. Suppressing feelings of attachment, compassion, and familiarity once felt so right. I was wrong to think that way. It slowly took me over, my thoughts became darker and darker, I yearned for those feelings I reject to feel. Yet, I carried on like that. Until I met my current lover.

I decided to start again, to try and live life the way I used to live, even more this time. I started to let go of the past and change my pessimistic outlook. It wasn’t at all that easy, I had to ‘rearrange’ my thought process. I learned to care for Others again, not disregarding them as useless or only thinking of them as useful; I didn’t see Others as tools for me anymore. In the end I realized that I was just venting my self-hate on Others.

I learned to love myself. It’s not that easy when most of your life you’ve been blaming yourself for things that went to shit, even when you didn’t have the power to change the circumstances or outcomes of anything. So I learned to do so slowly, without rushing changes to happen.

Which brings us back to the book, especially the book’s closing paragraphs. At the time I gave the book, I felt that I was the same as the book, and object to be given or received, I didn’t only give her a collection of poems, I gave her myself. She accepted the book, but rejected me. I couldn’t accept that. I thought that if I gave an all out effort to make her happy, I’d be happy. But I am not an object, and I didn’t have to go to such lengths to make someone happy. If I saw myself as a subject instead of an object, maybe, the outcome would’ve been different. Because in the end she was alright with the abrupt end of our ‘relationship’, yet I was broken.

I hated myself too much I started to hate others, yes I was broken but I felt comfortable being broken, that’s confusing enough isn’t it? Without letting people close enough to understand me, how could someone try to help? Yes, that delusional state of moderate misanthropy was strange and confusing. I’m happy it’s gone now, well it decreased drastically at least.

I learned my lesson, and now I’m trying to cope with the residue of a failed experiment. I’m still very much pessimistic, yet I could hope for better days to come now. Trying hard to be happy and all the while grateful for life.

Now all I regret is making such a naive cheesy closing for that book. ‘Bring light and serenity to a clouded dark mind..’  I mean come on? Really? Oh well, it’s in the past.