This site is an archive of my old blog and will not be updated. Most of the content is irrelevant by now and must not be taken out from its context. Note that views expressed in here was mine, but most likely I’ve changed my stance towards it. To catch up how, kindly redirect to my new site http://stellacyan.com
I have liked written words since I first remember it — or maybe since I realized that spoken words evaporate to carbon dioxide leaving nothing but unaccountable testimony.
Words move like travelers treating me like a little child before their grandpas. Telling heroic episodes enthusiastically while smelling like old cigarettes. They mix nonsense with delusion to pierce minds and collect fears. Words are made to succumb people like quicksand, leaving them crawling helpless until they understand that they’re attending their own funerals.
You were never something else. You were as boring as stranger silence in the elevator, as ordinary as judging eyes staring at their phones, as common as teenage boys fapping over kissing scenes. Your smile were never wide enough to find its way to infect me, and your eyes were never dark enough to make me push you into the shades. We know that you’re only here to stay the weekend, and I am here because I can’t be anywhere else.
There are no butterflies when our arms brushed each other, only us giggling before linking it together for the rest of the night. We thought touching skin will bring in the emotions we need alongside the inherent need of having someone so close to our breaths. We believed that we’re two rocks longing for flame; that somehow sparks will fly if we kneaded ourselves together enough times. It didn’t work, so we pretend we were warm by the cold air before us.
I taught myself that having you intently looking through my eyes for few seconds is enough, and letting you discover my delicacies before zero them out is what makes me content. I told myself that having someone to want me, no matter how artificial or how short the time span, is the ultimate blessing I therefore should feel complete in which nothing else does matter. I thought if I believe on this hard enough, blood will somehow wash through my pale feet, and I will be fine.
But when we stopped talking and ran out things to keep us numb, the frost kissed everything away beside our still shadows reflected by the moon; sad and separated by sharp lining that seems wide enough to cover the hollow we have in our hearts.
I taught myself to release my nerves from the pain it still felt even after too many times hearing the door slammed. I learned to close my eyes tightly to endure the eerie emptiness two seconds after you leave me to the dull. I taught myself that I want no more than to be wanted like it’s a duty and then left like I’m a done paperwork.
And when I open my heavy eyelids to the darkness I don’t plan to escape from, I told myself that I made it. That I was filled. I told myself that I was happy, and now it’s fine to let out a cry. I always know the void within will be empty all once more when you pull yourself from me, anyway.
What I don’t know is that the hollow in me was never filled no matter how hard I tried.