NAVA AMALEE
A bluebell in the winter, a bluebird in the summer
A bluebell in the winter, a bluebird in the summer
Here is the man of my life, the man of my dreams, the man of my wildest imagination. My poetries know his name like my blood knows the archeries, my demon surrenders upon his tenderness, and my fears fade away before his catching-fire eyes. I have fallen in love, so deep it is suffocating, out of sadness and joy, out of despair and hopefulness. I have fallen in love, with a man who, despite all the difficulties, works the things out. He is the only one who is willing to learn my language to communicate with me better. He is the one who works on loving me the correct way. He is the only one who, despite his impatience nature, deals with my stormy personality with warmth and tenderness. He tries not to raise his voice even once, he explains thing repeteadly when I dont understand, he hugs me when I overthink, he steals kisses when I am deep in my sleep as if he knows I must be dealing with my constant nightmares. He learns how to patiently listen, not merely to answer, but to understands. He tells me I am pretty when my face is swollen and my eyes are red with tears, He tells me I am cute when I wake up in the morning with my messy hair, He tells me I am beautiful when I havent had shower for two days, wearing the same clothes, and with nothing on my face except a bit of moisturizer. He feels like home. He knows all my sorrow, my fears, and my anxiety. He knows my fight, my struggle, my tribulation. He sees me cry, smile, laugh, and suffer. He is there when I have nothing to offer, but love.
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I always remember what Jane Austen said about love; that we all are fool in it. But she never told me if we all, too, are weak in it. Because sometimes, in the moment of despair that one could not escape from when one decided to be a lover, I feel like my heart is too fragile to handle the ache. The ache, that does not necessarily come merely from the physical touch. Instead of blaming the party's impatience, I would like to curse myself for being a stupid, inadequate communicator. I hate how I ridiculously need a bunch amount of time to get stuck in my mind before I speak, leading the party's annoyance to be unavoidable. I tend to speak less, not because I think that silent is the answer, but because most of the times, I am afraid of expressing what I really want, just in case it wont happen. My fear towards the dead of my expectation is beyond logic. In love, I don't ask much more than a companion; in my blossom and fall, in my winter and summer. I wish Jane Austen had assured me that I don't ask too much, because I am sure that's what love is for her, for Lizzy, and for Emma. Because what's the point of love if it is not about using every chance to see the eyes of your sweetheart? What is love if it is not about holding their hands, smelling their scent, and watching their smile as much as you can when you have the chance? I have done everything I could do for love. I look at myself and see how far I've come. I am stunned to see how much a woman can do, against all odds, only for the sake of a love she believes in. But despite all these struggles, how could I let my heart easily tear apart after one firm word, one high voice? How could the tears come so fast and the pain come in rush? If I cant survive any of these anymore, does it mean I am too weak for love and walk out a loser? Picture taken and owned by Cirrus I don't know what could feel scarier than waking up in the middle of the night followed by an existential crisis. An eerie feeling that captures the second my eyes are open, and lingers around no matter how hard I try to go back to sleep. Do I even want to sleep again? Do I even dare? Because I know it will capture me in my dream and I am not mentally prepared to see another nightmare. I wonder why no charm works, I wonder why no charm protects. I open my window to let the sound of the nature save me, but the only thing I can hear is the dogs barking over the dim light of the moon. Oh God, I am scared. I am worried. I can't breathe. I want to be safe at once. The lullaby playlist is on listening to me crying. Yet no place seems safe until the sun hits my square room to give me some warmth. Because at this very night, I've been trembling due to the coldness of depression and anxiety in the middle of summer. Will the sunlight save me from my agony? It never did. But when "everything is gonna be fine" and "this feeling is real but it might not be true" are not enough, I dont know what else would actually do. I'm worried about myself, I grow fear towards the person I've become. It feels like my mind is a foreign place, too odd, too unfamiliar. I've forgotten how it feels to be stormless, to be serene. The sea I am swimming in is rather cold, bitter, and murky. While everything reaches the peak of its life in this season; I'm dying, fading, decaying. As if summer is only unkind to me, giving me numbness, forcing me to be offed. I constantly find myself in the middle of the bridge of existence and extinction, and I never know which way to go. I don't know whether each way is too dark, or that I've gone blind. I don't know if each way is a deadlock, or that I've been so lost. Don't leave me, not yet. The person I would transform when I am left alone is an eerie, uncanny creature devouring all good things I possess: my faith, my hope, my emotion. Don't tell me to be stronger, the creature wouldn't even let me announce a short ceasefire. Don't tell me to fight harder, you would understand the agony when I show you the scars all over body. Just don't leave me, not yet, not now... For I am afraid of the mysterious tomorrow, of another fearful morning, of the dreadful night sleeps I will encounter. It’s the season of death and I am not better than I was two years ago, isolated in my despair room and trapped in a feeling I wish I could describe. Nothing is loud around here except my mind, and nothing is heard except the whisper of fear tiptoed in and out my prison. I snuggled under my duvet and closed my eyes most of the times, cursing June for leaving her daughter too early, in an endless battle with cold winter-tide inside her ruthless, brutal mind. There were days when I felt my chest was going to shatter, for breathing turned into something beyond obscure. Is it me who can not breathe? Or the room is too airless? Because the cirrus peeping from my window seem to have no answer, looking at me with pity and desire to embrace. Yet, I was too weak to reach, and he was too far to come along. I closed my eyes one more time, capturing the day autumn brought him so far away from me, and drown in my own tears because trying to be strong too much is intoxicating, far and away. Because how do you live, when the littlest things you whisper upon a star wont come true? How do you breathe when your chest is tight? And how do you see the world clearly when your eyes are blurred with tears? Someone was knocking on my door, pulling my dead, restless body towards the noise. I thought fairy tales are beyond belief until I found him standing there with a bouquet of roses and a smile, benign and tender. At that very moment, I knew November won’t take my cirrus away. Very bizarre it was to wake up in the morning of June, when the sun was hiding behind the gloomy clouds with their water pouring from all over the sky. But I was not looking for the cirrus as I used to do every time June greets me with her gentle, warm touch, for I know she had sent my very own back last summer. I turned my body around and found him beside me with eyes barely open and his lips curving a sweet, benign smile. At that very moment, I know I couldn't ask God for more. I recollected the moment of my despair, those times when I thought I could go through every pain and sorrow without him, but turned out realising I was not that strong. I was crawling in my skin, crying over every cirrus I saw, sitting in my square desolate room, wishing to hear his footsteps coming towards my door to ask me to begin everything all over again, and save me from the bleak, cold, endless wintertide I was imprisoned in for as long as I can remember. I put my hand on his head, my fingers were playing with his dark, soft hair. Outside was still raining, like June was crying over something I couldn't figure out, unlike June I know. Yet, little did I know she was probably just sentimental to see the happiness reflected on her lovely daughter's face, soon when her eyes closed as her cirrus took her to his embrace. At that very moment, she knew her baby daughter was safe and sound. |
December 2021
Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing - Benjamin Franklin |