The best friend
“Milia Jamson, go clean your room! The guests are coming soon and your room screams laziness!”
With my mother’s words ringing in my ears, I closed my book, thinking about the unread anguished pages and how the characters are dying to know what will happen next. What will happen to them if the story is left untouched and read?
I got up and opened my window, the garden-air filling my room. I then realized how full my room is, but I’m as empty as ever. Why do they have to come today? I dragged myself across the room and started clearing the unwanted boxes that were begging to leave.
Under my bed where the monsters hide during the day, my eyes landed on a little red box. It looked brand new, as if someone had kept it there unnoticed. I grabbed the box by the handle at the side and pulled it towards me, leaving trails of dust that colonized my entire bedroom floor.
It was addressed to me.
It was for me.
“Mom! I found something! Come here!”
I figured she went out to buy groceries with my dad, which meant that I was at home alone. I shook the box only to hear nothing but the soft sound of whispering, as if the box was telling me a secret that only I should know. With curiosity taking behold of me, I opened the box.
A note and a dried flower.
I picked up the letter and examined it first. It seemed very vintage and aesthetically pleasing, it was as if i went back in time to those days where problems could finally run free without worry holding them back. It was sealed with wax, in the color of royal red and there was a dried rose, a smaller version of the one that’s in the box, that was stuck on the wax. Alas, I opened it, cleared my throat and read it out loud.
You are invited to my birthday party! I know that I’ve changed, but you’ll always be my best friend. Come over to my house so that we can binge watch some Netflix after the party. I’ve got some snacks and we can just spend some quality time together. Love you and see you there.
I felt a frozen smile on my face as I finished reading it. My eyes teemed with tears of happiness and gratitude. Finally, she asked me. I jumped back on my feet and quickly ran down to ask my parents if I could go to Katie’s house. As I entered the kitchen where they were unloading their groceries, I was already hyped up.
“Mom! Dad! Can I go to Katie’s birthday party? She says-”
“That we can binge watch Netflix and eat snacks-”
I stopped talking and looked at them with a confused look. Did I say something wrong? I saw my parents exchanging concerned looks as they led me to the living room and convinced me to sit down.
“Honey, are we really doing this again?”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen, Katie died a year ago on her birthday.”
“But the box and- and the letter-”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can prove it to you mom. She wrote to me! She asked me if I could go! Today!”
Tears welled up in my eyes as I got up and dragged my mom to my room. Surely she can’t be serious.
“Milia, your room is still a mess.”
I could care less about my room, but what really gave me chills was the little red box that was on my bed. Was gone.
“Milia, I thought we went through this already last year. I understand today’s her birthday but I told you. She’s gone and in a better place, I hope.”
My mom gave one look and turned to leave. Mumbling something as she left. I scanned my chaotic room up and down in search of answers, but failure was all I sought. Somehow, however, everything felt so familiar. Like a memory that I can’t reach. I sat down on my bed, only to feel my heart going cold again. The same rose that Katie gave me lies on my bed. Right in front of me.
This is how my trauma haunts me. Over and over again.
I watched as the sweet shimmer of moonlight poured through the canopy of the forest, enlightening my vision. For the first time, I’m seeing the woeful side of nature. I wanted to take a night stroll, thinking about what makes one love. I realized how vulnerable and secure the heart of the forest can be. But nature can manipulate you into feeling welcomed into another world. Welcomed to a world of tranquility. Little do many know that it can be the one to scare the shadows of the dark, making them run back home.
Many define it as a place where you are secure and safe, but they are wrong. You can feel safe anywhere, but you can never call it your home. A home is not where you are from, it is where you belong. Where you are wanted.
Even though I became a threat to nature, curiosity took control and I took one step deeper into the heart of the forest. The trees created a comforting and amicable shed, giving off a sense of security and seclusion. They stood tall, arrogant and unyielding, as if they were soldiers protecting their land. They seem far more experienced than I am. They’ve seen the trauma that many run from and yet they still grow. But their branches shot up, as if warning me to go back. The land of evergreen brings forward the perfect epitome of life. Whatever one may do, consequences will be faced.
Peculiarity got me to a place. A place where laughter and happiness once lived. A place where one can feel loved. A place where one can be buried with agonized trauma. A place where secrets hide behind one's shadow of both the living and the dead. A place called home.
A derelict house.
I was astonished by the way nature had tried to cover it up. The rhythmic vines danced and twirled around to the melody of the howling wind like the ballerinas in a music box.I looked around the perished house. The ambience was manipulatively quiet and my mind teemed with lacerating memories. Everything about the house felt so familiar. The defective door cried for help. The window that breaks when the moonlight enters lies there, broken. Children's laughter is embedded in the ground where the flowers bloom. My heart lies somewhere in this house. I felt it calling to me, so I entered, leaving the door open for the shadows to escape freely.
As my eyes scanned the place, I stopped dead as I saw a picture frame lying lacerated and broken apart on the ground. A picture of a happy family.
My happy family.
My tears spoke up for me. I tried to reminisce about feeling loved but instead, remembering the forgotten merry moments and memories teemed in my mind. Behind every family portrait, lies secrets that want to be forgotten but the present depends on one’s past.
Secrets lie in this house. I’m just one step closer to the truth. To the traumatizing past.
But is it worth opening a door that I’ve closed?
Keep your doors closed and run
Matthew wandered around the room, taking every step with skepticism, devouring him, leaving what he had left to the ravenous society. He tried to have a moment of flashbacks of what happened, but reminiscing about the tragedy was all he could do. Every happy moment that he faces vanishes away from him, never to be mentioned or remembered by Matthew or anyone again. But despite everything, the ambience of the room felt very familiar and amicable. It was as if Matthew was destined to run away from the amicable feeling the entire time. Something about the things he had faced so far didn’t seem real yet they felt so familiar. Something about him doesn’t feel right. Before his thoughts dragged him away, he noticed a letter addressed to him on a mediocre table. He felt his own shadow running away as he picked up the letter and opened it.
Whatever you do, please do not do the following as every action of yours will lead you one step closer to the purgatory that you’ve spent your whole life running away from.
DO NOT open the door
DO NOT invite Jack into your home
DO NOT take the drink from him
DO NOT wake up
DO NOT meet the King and Queen
DO NOT enter a bedroom that has your name on it
DO NOT go back.
I do hope it's not too late.
He felt his heart going cold. He doesn’t remember writing a letter to himself. And he has done everything he told himself not todo. Is this a trap? Or is it a warning? If he didn’t write that letter, then who did? From what Matthew gained after diving into a crevasse of valued and sequestered memories, Jack gave him a drink and somehow he ended up here, in this palace and in this room. All alone. He then remembered what Jack had said before he left; “you are not to leave this room.”
Matthew also remembered the agony yet roguish in Jack’s eyes before he left. With curiosity taking behold of him, he took one risky step forward towards the door. Knowing that it wouldn’t make a difference even if his soul perished away from the world. Knowing that he would regret it.
He opened the door.
But it wasn’t the same expensive corridor he walked in with Jack before. It seemed to be a room full of light but the vacant darkness could still be seen by those who lived in it. Despite the scintillating walls being hopeless and colorless, the truth lies hidden in the shadows of the light. Matthew scrutinized his surroundings and felt the ambience of luxury vanish away. He turned around and realized the door he had just opened had disappeared. That’s when it hit Matthew that he was trapped in a void.
Agitation seemed to choke Matthew as he looked around the tortuous place for a way out. Nothing. His footsteps seemed to be more vociferous than his own thoughts. He continued walking, desperate for answers. Desperate to live a life where he doesn’t have to keep running. Desperate to breathe for the first time. Matthew noticed something from far. As he took a few steps closer, his eyes teemed with sympathy. It was a guy in a medical bed labeled patient no. 397. It seemed as if he couldn’t hear or see Matthew, so he took another step closer. Matthew noticed that the guy was dying right in front of him. Gasping for air, begging for another chance. Another life. The Holter monitor beside the guy started beeping frantically, indicating that his very own heart was betraying him. Matthew cried for help, but his voice just echoed, running away and further into the abyss he was currently in. To have a voice is to change another's future.
After analyzing every detail ever so carefully, for the first time Matthew felt lost and terrified. That person in the medical bed is him. That person who’s heart failed is him. That guy is him.
Tears flooded his vulnerable eyes. He screamed, he yelled, but his voice was silenced. Is this Matthews’ past or his future? Is this real? Is Matthew real?
‘DO NOT enter a room that has your name on it’, said the letter.
Now, Matthew knows why.
A heart too Heavy
I bring you a flower, but it ends up dying.
Petals fading away and you end up lying
I hate myself for coming back to you everytime
I hate that you are always right
You find the light in my eyes
I just want to be free but I want to do it with you by my side
Tears welled up in my eyes as I crumpled the paper. It can be hard for one to fathom their emotions. It can be hard to find happiness when you’ve been buried alive with melancholia. I should understand myself better than others. Even in the vulnerable darkness, one can still find their way. Knowing that, I looked outside and searched for comfort amongst the field of dandelions.
The vociferous silence on the train made everything better. I plugged in my earphones and played some music to alleviate the ineffable agony that my heart burns with. As another song played, I began to wonder, how do they make insecurities sound good? As the train rumbled away, I wondered how something could be so loud yet comforting. I wondered how my voice throttles my throat everytime I try to open my mouth. To be heard is to have a voice, loud enough to break the crowd. But what if there isn’t one?
Before my thoughts could further drag me away, a charming boy sat arrogantly across from me. His amber hair, soft and lush, glistened under the golden hour. His lips reminded me of those roses in the meadow of my dreams. His amiable eyes told a story that wanted to remain untold. Our eyes met and I caught myself sinking deep into them.
“Is there something wrong? Did realism swallow you up too?”
I gave him a shallow smile but my eyes teemed with broken pieces of loved-love fragments. He looked at me with concern as he leaned forward and wiped the tear that scintillated from my cheeks.
“It's alright if you don’t want to talk about it. Despite all our despair and woefulness, the sun always returns.”
I want to talk about it. I want to scream. But I just can’t. I just looked outside where the poetic clouds drifted past us. They created nebulous shapes to express their emotions that later languished away but slowly turned into something new. The same cloud. A new emotion. The train continued rumbling away. I was analyzing the beautiful scenery that Mother Nature had created when a hand was holding mine ever so benevolently.
“Listen, our biggest fears can be turned into the prettiest nightmares. Under the meadow of merriment lies the dead. There’s a rainbow that leads to not a pot full of gold but a pot flooded with unwanted feelings that want to be wanted. Whatever it is, this is not the beginning.”
Goosebumps colonized over my body. I felt a perished shadow umbrage over me. I screamed but not a sound came out. I closed my eyes but the ambience got stronger and angrier. The charming boy that I admired before disappeared and turned into my favored nightmare. It was my own vacant emotions disguised to manipulate me. To make me walk on the wrong, feared path.
Why is it that every time hope gets ruined by despair?
Why is this happening to me?
Or was it I who chose this to happen?
This is how my perturbation takes over me.
To the one’s that still live: Run.
Running seems to be one’s way to escape from their calamitous purgatory. To escape from their destined destiny. One can walk or run but will their footsteps of dreaded agony be remembered amongst the living? We can run but how far can that take us?
The bashful trees whispered violently under one’s breath in the howls of the winds, never failing to show that they grew from the mediocre memorable mistakes of others. Of both the living and the dead. The shadows of the ones who once lived, devoured the night, burying the exuberance of the people alive. Each gravestone brings back the memories that one’s mind teems with. But the memories that want to be remembered lie buried away. Never to be mentioned again.
Flowers placed ever so delicately remind one how memorable they are and can be. But what's the point if the flower dies too? The dirt that one is buried with, is filled with footprints of generations from many moons ago. As the lachrymose clouds hang low, they invade the perished reality that the living are forced to see and indulge.
The ambience of the dead is rather peaceful but the feeling of despair still remains. The gates are closed but they break free after a long time, with no other tragedy destined to them. The world beneath us can be ineffably dangerous and damaging. It can be a place where one's nightmares are hidden in one's dreams, watching over like a predator out in the wild. Or where a dream becomes our most feared nightmare. A place where one's heavy secret is buried, hidden away from reality. Hoping that it would stay that way for centuries to come.
The cemetery, a place where you die once but continue living.
The ghost in the attic
Wonders around to find that memory
That made him feel alive again
Gold between brown,
rust and red leaves
fell on to the ground
because they felt that they had no purpose left to serve
tonight is the night
when witches fly above the clouds and drop poison upon the death,
Cackling away while their loved ones lies perished and lost from reality
tonight is the night
when gnomes and trolls danced in their underground pits waiting for the night endeavor their souls
tonight is the night
when ghosts fly high and scream,
A person paints their life
Some tries using different colors to make life more interesting
Some use the same colors as others
But I become the colors of the rainbow
Sadly, no matter what color I become,
There will be someone who will always flush those colors down the drain
I try being red, “Hands in the air,” and everyone gets ready to fight with me instead
I try being orange, they say I’m bold where I scream through my eyes
I try being yellow, “cheerful,” they say, but behind the forgery smile, I hold back the tears
I try being green, “I’m calm,” I tell myself but anxiety suffocates me with ease
I try being blue, “Awe don’t cry” they give me tissues instead of peace
I try being purple, “luxurious but selfish,” they say, but i’m the complete opposite in reality
I try being white, “I’m plain and simple” they define me but little do they know I am filled with all the colors. Confused with the number of identities I have.
Sadly, no matter what one chooses,
Society will find a way to humiliate one for being themselves
Society will always judge and look at the book
but never read the inside of the book.
Of the person.
I look at the rainbow with questions flooding my mind:
Do I have to be a color?
Do I have to blend in with the crowd even when the crowd isn't there?
Is this who I am meant to be?
I am lost and confused.
I've learnt that it's just the world
Nothing can change the negativity of the society
Nothing can ever change.
The cursed kindness
The cursed kindness
Though she may have been agonized herself,
She understands one better than herself,
She tries spreading her sympathy to those who have trauma tightly wrapped around their finger
Little does she know that her inner aura will someday wither away like the petals of a dry rose on a windy day.
She sees the good while others are forced to see the bad
Why doesn’t she see that her kindness is killing her?
Kindness made her into its puppet
She screams for help, but to those whom she valued, threw her aside
Kindness, the one that could caress your cheeks and the one that could drag you down into an abyss of dark worthlessness
As kindness chokes her, her self respect gasped for air.
A walk with the moon...
I watched as the darkness devoured the night
Thinking about that one memory that could make one live
Or make one lose their sanity
I looked at the moon with such remorse in my eyes as he lit up my path
Remembering the first time I ever fell in love and will ever fall in love
Remembering my humiliated heart being throttled by a broken promise from the one I love
Remembering those memories, brought me into a conclusion:
I opened the door to my languished memories
I did this to myself.
It's my fault
It always has been.
“Kiss me under the moonlight”
His nostalgic voice being one of my biggest burden
I wish he had seen how much I cared
I fell into a crevasse of his lacerated love and in the end he was the only one who got out
He left me and his agonized love for me behind.
I learned from him, that it's ok to close those ignorant doors in life
It's ok to even lock them
It’s ok to never look back
He is and always will be my ignorant door.
His vision turned cloudy and the next thing that he knew, he was drenched in blood with half eaten innocent bodies surrounding him. He never felt so alive before.
"I did it again..." he whispered.