in which the selfless always lose the battle

perhaps the reason why the healers and the selfless are always losing the battle they can’t win - like meaningless arguements - and purposely backing down and walk away before the moment gets worse. it’s because they know that the peak of the war hurts more, so every time they’re dragged into a fight, they’ll say “okay, fine. it’s my fault. im sorry.”

people call them cowards, but they’re just tired of trying to win a losing battle. they know that their words aren’t powerful enough to overthrow the king. they are just the jacks of the kings and queens.

and even though it hurts, at least they know that the other would be happy, and sleep peacefully at night.

etterath

n. the feeling of emptiness after a long and arduous pro- cess is finally complete—having finished school, recovered from surgery, or gone home at the end of your wedding— which leaves you relieved that it’s over but missing the stress that organized your life into a mission.

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fuck i feel so fucking fat after eating a whole meal after three weeks of not eating i wanna fucking vomit it out

even when we’re ghosts, deep down, i hope that somewhere in the background, i could see you and say the things i’ve always regretted not saying - even if the outcome hurts.

log one

im currently revamping a website for a client, yet even as time passed as i do my mundane tasks of a tired human being - i feel this peculiar sadness clouding my heart. i dont feel it strongly, but it’s there, echoing. it’s probably nothing more, nothing less. although deep down it will prolong to a feeling more hurtful for myself and my sleepless mind.

friends to lovers

i think the beauty of friends to lovers that you see in books and movies is the moments they shared as they get to know each other for the first time. you share dissimilar, yet meaningful moments for the first time. you know each other’s favourite songs for the first time, then eventually share your playlist compiled of your favourite songs as soon as your heart opened up just a little for that person.

some days, they don’t come to you fleeting enough as you stare at the ceiling of your room, adorned by galaxies and wishful thinking. some days, you notice the way they pay attention to you in some cafe brewing coffees, their phone put away just to listen to the little things you say. and some days, will come one day, that you notice the faint, unfathomable, but strong beat of a skip in your heart blatantly telling you that, ah, they’re special. they’re an exception.

winter in the room

it's tiring, isn't it? living a cycle so unfathomably boring that even the feelings you hide during the day can't comprehend what's on your mind like a cosmic space lingering inside our heads for hours in bed until we finally get up to shower. especially when you're technically waiting for school to start after you graduated from your previous one months ago, waiting while working part-time to distract that boredom, wearing the ekoskeleton over your depressive state you've been hiding from social media—ghosting on certain people so they won't bother you, though it's just you secretly asking for pity—because you just want to feel alive again.

dictionary of obscure sorrows

pre-ordered the book last month. im so stoked. i remember stumbling upon their tumblr two years ago. to think that they’d finally have a published book? it makes me mirthful beyond wishes.

in the background

how incredibly patient and insufferably nice must you be to be the most down to earth person in the world (society) when you know more than anyone that the tiny little voice lingering in your rose-coloured heart keeps telling you it's lonelylonelylonely even when you're in a crowd full of people with the same purpose but with different individualities—to know that even when you make the funniest jokes to hear their laughter validating your worth as you hope that they'd accept you, but they only do when you can hear amusing voices linger more than eternity. to avoid the flickering moments of loss of social senses—the ability to make people remember you. but a phenomenal vain looms over as they choose those a little above your throne (desolate and rusty) then you remember—you're just another jack of the kings and queens

after dreams

dreams are either beautiful or painful—because the epidemic of its final stages would cause you to wake up crying with tears dripping down your pillow or wake up forgetting the best time of your life within negative seconds. absolute bellow of an ache in your heart wishing it was real, fake and both. sometimes they're the answers to why they happen—to let out your suppressed emotions you didnt get to release in this world but in your dreams, or perhaps the result of forcing yourself to neglect your views towards someone you used to care for—lover, family, friends and passing strangers merely carriers with shared memories; because even if it's just a dream—you know more than anyone that you wish the feeling of an after-dream upon waking up leaves you longing for more love and pain.

the consequence of kindness

feel that twitch from the corner of your lips? feel that heavy sigh from your weary soul? it's tiring isnt it—being nice. too nice. or maybe, faking niceness—because sugar-coating words from the tip of your tongue was just an endurance of your bellowing rage seeping through those little cracks of your shallow heart. wanna know why? well, let me be your eyes—you're the demon that everyone hates to see ( hear ) their gaze of disgust and hatred at the sound of your sickening roar. you've become this unpleasant little thing society has shaped you that turns you numb that heartless is your virtue—what becomes of you, this demon, is someone nonetheless who'd became a nora—the brutally honest ( who was sick and tired of dipping her tongue in sweet rum )

a draining cycle

what is it about the moment you wake up, feeling that dull weight underneath your eyes as a deep, drowsy sigh leaves your lips? ah. you were sleepy. but you felt something else too. you got out of bed and walk to your bathroom and look in the mirror—you could see the smile underneath your eyes, except that they were nothing but the dead sea underneath the ocean's breath within your lids. ( the cause of the sky crying too much ) a storm that killed sailors in your heart.