Should conviction stay still and unchanging, I would have sat here silent as the world sheds in its anthropomorphic nature. But it is difficult, as all convictions are and the lines are fading. Mind—divulging—sorrow—wasps— There is temporary quiet for now, and absence is noted; the heart is absent. Could things be any better, any worst or the same? Like same is same on an early afternoon, where the walks are bitter and archaic in defiance, and feelings languidly pass as fingers mount on chapped knee caps. Time becomes an interval where my grasp is weak and the soul is meager, like daylight trying to break free.
“What is this benign madness?”, you ask. As the rain douses aching hearts on an afternoon too early. You wonder why the rooftops are silent though it is raining and offer an all-too-far-fetched response, like how the sound of sorrow during heartbreaks (like as if all things the eye cannot see makes a sound; you believe that flowers talk with actual voices) transcends the self and senses and the world falters when one slurs in a metaphysical state of mind blah blah blah blah blah. I listen half-heartedly as your slow drawls and whispers start rising in high pitches of excitement.
Sometimes loneliness is illumined by the passing happiness of others.
He always loved maps. He supposed that those who drew maps were essentially explorers as well. So while he grew up, it wasn’t surprising to learn that he wanted to be a cartographer. Most importantly, when he met her.
It wasn’t so hard to see how his eyes gazed a second to long at her back with neck innocuously shown. It would seem that his ambition has moved on to be one where he wished he could, if possible, be a cartographer not in the physical sense of the word; rather, he would be a cartographer of her.
He would be the one who would study her. He would be the one to pinpoint unchartered territories on her skin, with child-like wonder. He would discover depths in her eyes, most probably soften his gaze as he discovered sensuality in her. The crevices of her body and skin; each scar, blemish and mark, mapped into lines and symbols by his affection and curiosity. His calloused hands would remind him of how graceful hers are compared to his. And like the world to be explored; she was his world. He would draw the map with details, and details would always matter, details would never be enough to cover more details, because her essence if forever wafting. And like the world which in nature is a paradox — he would discover her temperaments that elicits wildness and danger. Everything in her that lies in tragic obscurity would be for him to learn, to understand. He would realize that, through all that effort–sometimes pained and futile–there really was so much more to her, and how little there is to his knowledge.
His greatest map drawn would be the one of her, on her, for her.
A/N: I don’t like this that much :/
In an almost-full lecture hall, with a barely-there lecturer; I thought about you.
It finally occurred to me. Some people form lines between each other—lines that curve and bend; lines that dip down like valleys only to meet again at the tips. Or lines that form perfect circular spheres that wind around them in their perfect little world, almost like an atom. Or contours; either way, the lines meet to form an uneven but unbroken shape.
You and I, we formed lines too. Unlike the lines of others, our lines ran straight as arrows. Parallel straight lines. The lines formed but never met to serve an end. They pushed towards an infinite path but never curved and bended and moved and dipped and contoured to form a shape, a shape we wished we had—the perfect circle. The thing about us, the lines; a spherical plane never existed, a longitude and latitude that met at an angle—there was none. The lines moved on their own and, as hard as we’d try, it’s impossible to bend lines that are straight, unless, of course you had some telekinetic spoon-bending power.
This is no tragedy, nor is it a lament for a future we would not have. Rather, it is fact. Straight lines are straight, straight lines will never curve.