For all that have lived are taken whole. Man hunts for meat, bathes in blood and wears skin from a warrior’s soul. Every god, boy, and beast, life and death are his alone.

For all that you loved are taken whole. He spares you, keeps you alive but leaves you with a scar, a baptism of your meeting until he greets you again with your end.

“And what is a boy if not a glowing thing learning what he can get away with?

And what is a girl if not a pulsing thing learning what the world will take from her?”

I really believe that we all get lost somehow, and most of the time we don't find ourselves. We just lose ourselves in the process. It's futile to figure out why or how it happened, or who's at fault: it's just the way it is. So instead of finding someone who left, unsure 'he'll' comeback, maybe we can recreate ourselves. Take all what we love about 'him' and fill 'him' up with things we want to be.

That’s how to kill yourself without dying. 

Golden week when children play, I see no shadow in tall grasses wave. Through the forest trail, the cold mountain air, where has she gone? Why wasn't she there?

The birds chirped away into the canopy. The wilderness took peace as the night caved in. Threat was slipped under our door, a piece of misread script asking me to offer a gift.

I wrapped a rock as I was told to deceive him for a gold, but as suspicions grow, he saw through it and took an overgrown step leading to a disturbed river below. Searched for marks but we were left with the unknown.

We found her disguised in an alley on a nearby farm, her skirt was ripped and was tied around her eyes- her skin like snow looked graceful in the morning light. She was found, but she might continue to wander around.

I ran out of breath running into the dense woods, leapt across fences, passed through engraved marker stones. I reached our doors and saw a noose shafted in a joist, and I couldn't remember what I've done after all.

—xxx, Sayama Hills

I have always been the type that tells a person I'm in love with him without hesitation. I don't enjoy drawing meanings or playing the hard games, or letting them figure out if my stare is of judgment or of admiration. But maybe that’s what is wrong with me, I leave people no space to think. I let them too comfortable with the idea that I can tell what I want to, tell them how I feel. And when I’m hurt they expect me to tell them “I’m not okay. I’m hurting. You’re hurting me.” But I am not that type. I keep all the pain inside. You see, love is such a beautiful thing to express, to tell people like it’s a compliment, but pain isn’t. Letting people know you’re hurting kills you even more.

Perspectives

Raymond Carver, Late Fragment

Here’s a story of revelation. It was the first time in my life I couldn’t figure out what to tell people, what to tell her. I was caught off guard that the only reply I’ve been repetitively telling her is ‘are you messing with me?’ It’s crazy how we grow and change. I claim to know her in every detail, the meaning behind her smirk, her eye rolls, how her reflexes, and hand and eyes coordination fail when driving. I know I know her, but I realised that knowing a person for years never guarantee there were no bone hidden under the bed. It’s not a problem to tell you. It was just a revelation I wasn’t ready to face. But this has changed everything between us. I now know that despite of rigidity and repulsiveness, love will always win. Love’s a bitch for turning a person so sure about who she is and who she will be with into someone she promised not to become. And because of that love’s beautiful. I hope her the best. She will always be part of my life. 

I used to do arts. I used to aspire to become an artist. Trying to learn to sketch, to illustrate, to create vexels, trying to learn to paint. But as people overtly progress, every WIP is a punch in the gut, every finished piece is a slap in the face. I was left behind. Too far away, I decided that art is not for me.

Dili sa tanang panahon magpabilin ang kahayagon.

Ining panahona, masabtan nimo nga naay lahi-lahing hitsura ang kasidlakun.

Maong pasagdi. Pasagdi ang mga panahon nga kaunon ka sa kangitngiton.

For most years of my life I deny things. Now, I'll admit it. There is so much wrong in me people wouldn't get. I am made of constellations of irony and mistakes. I know that often I'm may come across differently to people from the way I see myself. People say I'm too dramatic, too annoying, too attention-seeking, too tactless, too straightforward, too self-righteous, too offensive, too unapproachable, too naive, too trying-hard, too know-it-all, too rigid, too self-absurd, too conceited, too sensitive, too numb.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't be the person you all want me to be-you all expect me to be. I cant be the person who's made out of in betweens. I am made of extremes, farthest point in either sides of the dichotomy, never just the right amount, never just enough.

How could you be so jealous of the people you’ve only seen on the internet? How come you’re too convinced that you want the same kind of love–the same kind of kiss–the same kind of intimate moments when all you got to see are series of photographs and not knowing the scenes behind each frame–every deleted photographs in between?

It’s crazy how I’m more participating in getting nosy of their lives, of their story, than my own. It’s pathetic. I can’t believe I’m doing this to myself. There shouldn't be any chance that I will feel bad just because they seem to have the things I always wished for. It feels miserable to realise that I am trapped in a crafted world where I prefer to stay in my bed seeing people do thing that I always wish to experience. This is it. I really need to  start living. I need to move away from all of these.

— s.s.b.

Most people believe that they’re destined for someone.

What if you are destined to be alone? What if sooner in life you’ll realise you’re not the relationship type?

How will you be able to grow up from believing that love is received? Will you be forever sad, blaming the world you’ll never know what ‘love’ is?

If you’re too in love with the idea of being in love, how will you be able to live with your own skin and your brittle bones?

Love is truly a treacherous bitch. 

I cut my own light and hope the eyes of the storm can watch me brightly explode. I reached for another hole that came my way, to suck me in so I could feel I’m whole again.

The problem with being too self-sufficient, people are too convinced you can always get what you want, do things without much of effort, like you can turn water to wine. That whenever you tell them you are uncertain of winning, they think you’re just being humble. I think I have lost the ability to fail. I no longer have the right to fail. That’s how I think they see me.

I’m terrified of the possibilities I may not do it. I have acknowledged the existence of non-being. And for now, non-being is not getting what I have been planning and working hard for. I know, I am doing this for myself… but I can’t deny I am also doing this for people so dear to me. I don’t want to disappoint them. I want to win it; I can’t afford to lose what are at stake. I can’t afford to lose this battle.

It sucks that people are confused when I don’t appear tough. You see, I’m not doubting my capabilities. I know what I can do but I’m uncertain of the situation that might hinder my chances. Life’s treacherous. Most of the time, you don’t get the things you pray at night. Most of the time, you make a man out of what you can.

I know I just need a little push, a little ‘you can do it’ even if people think I don’t need it anymore. I know, I don’t need validation, not anyone’s approval. I just appreciate when people take off a little of their time to make sure I’m okay, to show that they really care.

Trapped.