i don't need flowers
tulips wilt
i don't need your
feelings on paper
the ink fades
and paper burns
so easily ashen
like my skin
set aflame
doused by fear of losing
holding you somewhere
captive in my heart
and set free in my eyes
you set me apart.
you stop me
when i walk towards you
and pull me
when i leave
and i crumple
like dried leaves on your feet
begging
pleading
write me
love me
wreathe me in flowers
wreathe me in your fingers
wreathe me
until i wilt
and burn
set aflame
upon your lips.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Blogging Woes
I realized that lately my blog posts have been replaced by all sorts of crappy poetic nonsense. I'd like to apologize, mainly to myself, for misusing my outlet.
Initially, I started writing this blog when I decided to major in journalism. Realizing that my opinionated writings had no place in my journalism classes, I still felt that I had to somehow develop my viewpoint and opinion somewhere. Hence, the creation of this blog.
I started out with commenting on othet blog posts, mostly about more neutral things like clothes, technology, architecture and k-pop. (Admittedly, k-pop has avid followers and equally passionate haters, so it might be a bit difficult to categorize it as "neutral"). However, the more I got into reading articles to compare biases in the media (which we were studying in class), I started trying to apply these concepts to analyze the articles I'm reading from the Indonesian media. This resulted in a bunch of immature hate posts against the religious/racial division in Indonesia being further exacerbated by the use of selective truth in the media, depending on ownership. I didn't figure out until much later that my pointing out the differences between these medias did nothing but divide my country into a bunch of race and beliefs, instead of emphasizing on the unity we should have as people of the same country. Later on, when I started taking a women studies class, I started to write posts on the lack of weight of women rights in Indonesia. Despite the fact that I found a sound topic I was passionate about, I was still basically just writing hate posts supported by the fact that I am a woman and no real knowledge on the situation.
By this time, I realized that I'll never make a good journalist if all I do is be a fangirl or a hater. As much as my thoughts might have grown slightly more mature thanks to writing my thought process out in the form of this blog, I couldnt produce any good writing that made sense after a few months.
Instead of writing about a truth I have yet to attain, I returned to writing prose and nonsense that I thought would make me sound somewhat deep. Maybe it was also triggered by my turning twenty and questioning at what age I might perchance find my true love, or if I have actually found him. Maybe.
While I figured out that my writing nonsense-meant-to-be-poems were pretty much useless to the advancement of my career, I also figured out that if I stay like this I'll never get anywhere with the blog.
Right now I'm in the middle of trying to repurpose my blog as a good representation of who I want to be. I haven't found who I want to be yet, but I figured if I continue to write my obnoxious opinions up here I might either find out what I really like and what I really don't like.
So, what I'm going to try to do from now on is to write about issues I'm concerned about, whether that be analyzing the media with my shallow knowledge, or writing about social issues as discussed by books that inspire me, etc. Hopefully I can do this regularly. Right now I have a stack of books to read at home that I hope will make me a better person, and a better writer.
Stick with me.
The Taste of Goodbyes
I wonder what makes goodbyes bitter, or what makes them sweet. What makes them taste like anything at all?
Do memories taste sweet? The scent of the sea, the memories of an idealized yellow-tinted sunlight where you basked and laughed and thought that the world couldn't be more perfect? The whirring of bicycle wheels, the smell of popcorn as you hold hands over dirty cinema seats. Sticky palms when you hold hands too long on a hot summer's day, the creak of the old swing in the shade of the porch. Or is it in the anticipation, the anticipation of your happily ever after?
People walk away. You walk away. I walk away.
And what of the anticipation of a goodbye? Could you, perhaps, feel that in the air around you, the fear slowly closing on your lips, your throat?
What we must speak on, we speak none of. You smell goodbye; you smell it like the dry itch of winter's advent, and the rustle of the coming clouds. You feel it in the the tick of the wall-clock as you pass the night away, pass the night awake. With the fear of being alone.
You fear it like a shadow and you spit it out. The taste of sweet, the taste of the sun, the taste of lips, the taste of sweat. And all you are left with in your mouth is your own words, tasting like nothing on the tip of your tongue.
Your tongue is numb.
Does that make it bitter? To lose the taste of sweet-- dissipated by the bitter fear, the bitter effort of keeping your head up without seeing into another pair of awaiting eyes, the bitter echo of empty words. Of empty promises that you know you cannot keep. That he cannot keep.
You watch yourself crumble and stick yourself together with honey, with whatever notion of sweetness you can salvage from the memories you keep. Then suddenly, you start minding the hot summer sun, the sticky sweat on your palms. You cling to the happily ever after you see on TV. You cling to the eyes that don't see you, and feel the gaze stare away, stare through.
Your senses dull themselves away to create a husk, a husk made of glass. A breakable husk, a see-through husk. You could see through yourself better than anyone else. He could too, if only he were looking.
You anticipated a goodbye. You convinced yourself otherwise.
You paint a picture of nectar and end up with the smell of shit.
You start to notice the smell of sweat, the roughness of skin, the bristles of hair that disturb your proximity. You start to notice the discomfort of the joints under you, beside you, holding you, tearing you apart. You notice his sunken eyes, his breath when he's drunk, the crookedness of teeth, the bent nose.
You start to stare at the lips you kiss. You keep your eyes open, in fear that he would run. Run, like you want to do now.
What do you taste now?
You taste goodbye rolling on the tip of your tongue, like nothing, like air, like water. You set fire to nothing, and douse whatever is left hanging with your love. No, your fear.
Nothing tastes sweet anymore. And yet it is not bitter. All that is left for you is the numbness of your tongue, your lips and your fingertips.
All that is left is the anticipation of goodbye, slowly boiling in your empty sky.
Do memories taste sweet? The scent of the sea, the memories of an idealized yellow-tinted sunlight where you basked and laughed and thought that the world couldn't be more perfect? The whirring of bicycle wheels, the smell of popcorn as you hold hands over dirty cinema seats. Sticky palms when you hold hands too long on a hot summer's day, the creak of the old swing in the shade of the porch. Or is it in the anticipation, the anticipation of your happily ever after?
People walk away. You walk away. I walk away.
And what of the anticipation of a goodbye? Could you, perhaps, feel that in the air around you, the fear slowly closing on your lips, your throat?
What we must speak on, we speak none of. You smell goodbye; you smell it like the dry itch of winter's advent, and the rustle of the coming clouds. You feel it in the the tick of the wall-clock as you pass the night away, pass the night awake. With the fear of being alone.
You fear it like a shadow and you spit it out. The taste of sweet, the taste of the sun, the taste of lips, the taste of sweat. And all you are left with in your mouth is your own words, tasting like nothing on the tip of your tongue.
Your tongue is numb.
Does that make it bitter? To lose the taste of sweet-- dissipated by the bitter fear, the bitter effort of keeping your head up without seeing into another pair of awaiting eyes, the bitter echo of empty words. Of empty promises that you know you cannot keep. That he cannot keep.
You watch yourself crumble and stick yourself together with honey, with whatever notion of sweetness you can salvage from the memories you keep. Then suddenly, you start minding the hot summer sun, the sticky sweat on your palms. You cling to the happily ever after you see on TV. You cling to the eyes that don't see you, and feel the gaze stare away, stare through.
Your senses dull themselves away to create a husk, a husk made of glass. A breakable husk, a see-through husk. You could see through yourself better than anyone else. He could too, if only he were looking.
You anticipated a goodbye. You convinced yourself otherwise.
You paint a picture of nectar and end up with the smell of shit.
You start to notice the smell of sweat, the roughness of skin, the bristles of hair that disturb your proximity. You start to notice the discomfort of the joints under you, beside you, holding you, tearing you apart. You notice his sunken eyes, his breath when he's drunk, the crookedness of teeth, the bent nose.
You start to stare at the lips you kiss. You keep your eyes open, in fear that he would run. Run, like you want to do now.
What do you taste now?
You taste goodbye rolling on the tip of your tongue, like nothing, like air, like water. You set fire to nothing, and douse whatever is left hanging with your love. No, your fear.
Nothing tastes sweet anymore. And yet it is not bitter. All that is left for you is the numbness of your tongue, your lips and your fingertips.
All that is left is the anticipation of goodbye, slowly boiling in your empty sky.
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