Hide Me

I'm like a tightly closed bud of a flower,
hidden layer by layer of wonderful surprises.

I'm beautiful, I'm brilliant, I'm funny and witty, I'm fragile and sweet, I'm vindictive and loyal, I'm sensitive, I'm a complete enigma. And I'm hidden. Hidden from you and everyone else.
Find me... like I found you - unpolished, rough diamond beneath a pile of fool's gold.
Discover me... like I discovered you - slowly and with great enjoyment as i watched you shine.
Cherish the moment you uncover me like a child who eagerly opens his present on christmas morning.

I am hidden so you can find me.
Find me soon for I am buried beneath all pretty baubles and trinkets.
Hopefully, you are not blinded by all the glitter and sparkle for I am plain and dull.
When you find me at last, do not lose sight of me.
I am hard and edgy from the hiding. If you treasure me, polish me with care until at last I shine like a tear from your eye. And I will be yours forever.

Remnants of First Love

Let him go.

No!

Why not?

Just because.

You don’t love him. Why do you still want to hold on to him?

Because he loves me. He’s always been in love with me.

He’s pined for you for years and you’ve treated him like dirt.

Yes, I’ve been mean to him, scorning his love because he wasn’t cool enough.

He’s found someone who wants him. Set him free. He used to be a music box, all sweet and gentle songs.

Now he’s just a silent, broken piece of wood. I did that, I’ve broken his spirit.

Yes, you did. Being with you has turned him into a ghost of his old self. Why do you hold on so tight to something you’ve never wanted in the first place?

Because she wants him! She wants what’s mine. He’s mine! He’s mine because I am his first love.

That’s childish. You’re holding on to him not because you want him but because you don’t want to lose what’s yours to someone who wants him more than you do.

But it feels nice to be loved and adored. And he’s not complaining.

Yes, being loved and adored is a nice feeling. But the best feeling is when the one you love reciprocates your love. If you care about him even a little, let him go.

It’s not that easy. I’ve been used to having him around.

Habit. It’s just your excuse. A weak one at that. Set him free. You’ll both be better off. Loving you ruined him. Give him up. Let her fix him, your broken music box.

Fear of the Unknown

The spaces in between

The lapses of silence

Sometimes scare me.

I’m not good at subtle

Tell me, talk to me

But I am afraid

Of knowing, of the reality,

Of change, of things yet to come,

Of what I have to hear.

I am such a coward.

Last Chance

Look back, she thought.

Call out my name, he thought.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound his footsteps. He took one step. One step towards the door. One step farther from her. Two. Three.

It was a game they played. How far can he go without looking back, without missing a step. How far can she let him go without her asking him to say, without her calling his name.

He was at the door, reaching for the handle.

Dammit, stay, she wanted to say.

He sighed. She held her breath.

“I’m leaving,” he said without turning back. The knob clicked as he opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Tears started to cloud her vision.

“I know. I am, too.”

With that he left. He left her. The room smelled of sun-kissed flowers.

Damn her pride. Damn his weakness. Damn it all, love is bittersweet.

Of Mangas and Mangakas

I miss ranting and raving. I miss being tackless and blunt. I’m exhausted and sleep-deprived, cranky and overly patient. (something so abnormal about me: I really am patient when I’m feeling odd) Blame it on the monthly cycle pains and the not-so-over exams.

I’m obsessed with manga right now, an obsession I share with my college friend Richard. I love reading manga for some time now. Lately, I’ve been reading a lot more and craving (to the point that I spend a whole day in internet shops and bookstores reading manga). I’ve met Onyxangel, an online friend who shares my obsession. Her comments amuse me to no ends and her recommendations are smack perfect. She introduced me to the works of Hino Matsuri, MeruPuri or Marchen Prince. One word: kilig. The characters are interesting, the story is quaint, and the drawings are beautiful. I have to applaud the mangaka, her works are utterly beautiful. I love the way she draws, perfect lines and symmetry, lovely scenery and astig costumes and the characters – beautiful! I’ve always been a fan of guys with lovely eyes and androgynous features. When I saw her male leads, I just had to stop and stare, more like ogle. How I wish they were real!

Another mangaka with beautiful characters is Miyagi Riko, I’ve seen only a few chapters of her work but I’ve stared at it for minutes at a time. I love the way she draws the eyes, conveying emotions with just the eyes. Her script is heart-meltingly sweet as well.

But I guess I still love Nana the most; it wasn’t my first manga but it is my first love. Ai Yazawa is the mangaka. Plus, Nana has been turned into anime, which I found so cute, and 2 movies! *clap clap* The first movie featured one of my favorite Jap actresses, Aoi Miyazaki, the theme song was written by my fave Jap rock artist, Hyde of L’Arc~en~ciel, and had the best parts of the manga in it. I’m digressing! ^_^ I’m such a fan. Back to my point… I love the story! It moved me to tears of joy, triumph, frustration, and helplessness; it had me cringing in embarrassment and kilig; it had me crazy in love with her cute drawings; and it thoroughly converted me to rock and roll goth. The mangaka is a great story teller to the point that I couldn’t stop reading till my eyes hurt.

Hisaya Nakajo with her Hanazakari No Kimitachi E also gave me shivers of utter kilig.

My recent read is Yuuki Ryou’s Shinigami Lovers. I’m a fan of the supernatural and this really does it for me, a mortal girl and a death god. It’s not as well drawn or as heart-wrenching as the other mangas but it’s turning out pretty okei. I'm looking forward to the new chapters and the new characters.

Pseudo fiction

Look back, she thought.

Call out my name, he thought.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound his footsteps. He took one step. One step towards the door. One step farther from her. Two. Three.

It was a game they played. How far can he go without looking back, without missing a step. How far can she let him go without her asking him to say, without her calling his name.

He was at the door, reaching for the handle.

Dammit, stay, she wanted to say.

He sighed. She held her breath.

“I’m leaving,” he said without turning back. The knob clicked as he opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Tears started to cloud her vision.

“I know. I am, too.”

With that he left. He left her. The room smelled of sun-kissed flowers.

Damn her pride. Damn his weakness. Damn it all, love is bittersweet.