❝maybe love makes us suffer so we love it more, as humans by nature seek pain because it is the greatest power that simply makes them feel.❞
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[ 19 july, 2:00 am ]
is this a blessing or not? to write about love when i haven't felt it before? the pages of my note pad, dairy, journal all bleed and bleed and bleed endlessly. but in black, not red. eighteen years of existence never guaranteed anything when descended from the static sky.
the pen in hand is forming imprints on my thumb, my hand cramps from holding onto it, wishing inspiration of yet another love strikes. well, no doubt it does. it does, it does, it does. i tread in every metaphor there is. underwater visuals ignite something in my mind; mind not heart. pictures of street lamps have never looked so gorgeous.
last month, i observed a guy from distance: no name, no recognition. the pages of note pad fluttered, calling to challenge me. i smiled in amazement. yes, i would if i could.
but right now, my muse has been a blurred face, but warm hands and burning smile. i would clear the haze one day, and the muse's picture wouldn't be out of focus. it'll be the only focus.
until then, x
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