"We are poetically beautiful,
even we're vulnerable and broken."
This book contains of english poems and prose I've written for the past years until to this date. Some are short and some are quite long. I hope you enjoy reading my pieces!
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there are times when i look into the mirror, i scarcely recognise myself. it made me a little bit confused and a little bit anxious because whenever i run my fingers across my face, it feels like i no longer know the person who’s in front of me. i trace down every edge and yet it feels like i am wholly touching a stranger with the same visage. like there's a real me and a reflection of me, and i have no way of telling which is which. the sadness and loneliness cradle me in ways that i can feel myself burning away, little by little, turning into ashes until i cannot stop myself from fading along with the sullen air.
i must admit. that no matter how many times i try to save the things i value the most, i always end up finding myself losing every colours i have on my skin. the vivid colors turned black and gray, and the shadows on the horizon are no longer moving as if time stops the moment the hues abandon my fucked up sleeves. maybe i was like a prosaic painting that doesn't look pleasant to someone's eyes anymore, but honestly, it doesn't bother me. not even a bit.
but i think it is the feeling of losing yourself more than anything, or maybe because i just don't believe that anyone ever finds themselves completely.
maybe it’s like a part of ourselves escaped and it is terrifying after it forsaken us and never find its way home. but then i guess there’s a sense of it, maybe it's one of the many ways to love ourselves even when we are scarred, incomplete, or devastated. and no matter how dreadful it may sound, i think it is part of being beautifully tarnished but not in someone else's garden anymore; maybe we are all roads, and we change every time life makes us bend into unknown shapes, briefly or verbosely, we still go along with it and automatically adjust.
maybe we lose parts to grow into someone we didn’t expect, and maybe it’s not about being alienated with yourself.
but perhaps it's about time to accept ourselves completely without looking for what was already faded beyond our grasp; and maybe it is not about being a prosaic, maybe because we are actually a mosaic of too many beautiful moments smattering with scourging blues and tragic sense of nostalgia.
//. you’re still an art even in a room filled with uncertainty pcr : the end of the f**king world (netflix)
