Letter to..

Al beni yanına, sevgilim.

—Anıl Emre Daldal

My carnation, my star. Crawl inside of this body — find me where I'm the most ruined. Love me there. Just so you know, I would want you to reside eternally in there. I've gladly made a space for you in my ribs, my nails had dug to my flesh, they were wounded painfully. In a way, I need your touch just like how the torn skins need to be knitted together over the wounds. I need you to cover my heart that had been spilled on the land of your lovely palms. If not then, my star, can you pass your grasps into mine? Therefore, you will acknowledge that the dip of my neck and the curve of my palm are sculpted to hold your face in it. And your whispers had been worshiped by my ears, and my mind, there's a hollowness here, where my own voice feels foreign. Where a specific space only able to receive the slight breath of yours. My Capella, my eyes were made to adore yours, your eyes had met mine and unraveled me thread by thread, till I was left as a pile of poor bare bones. 

For half of me is you. Let our souls entwine together by the saintly red strings. Let our pinkies be intertwined together so that it'll draw out the red blood that is as red as the thread that I’d like to think still connects us, maybe in a wonder inside of my mind. Hear out what I need to say, I've been longing for the syllable of name to be breathed out from your lips. To have your wounds as mine. For half of me is you. My Capella.

As the way ash would become one with the air. I would rather merge my soul to yours than touch the bare of your palm. Even the greatest of people would've been died by the hands of love. Your palms were sculpted with a string that are shaped as the beautiful lines of you. Would it fit against mine? Would you grab my hand and pass me to the dreamless sleep I ever wanted? I would kiss your finger whenever you graze my skin. I know being able to shape my words would make me go rampage, I wouldn't know how to give an affection, it was barely given to my past. I wouldn't say I’d try for you. 

My star. My preservation from harm, ruin, loss. My deliverance from sin and its consequences. I had been deceived into believing that the stars had slept inside of your eyes, but I thought even the shine of your existence in my life was brighter than the reflection of the sun on a lake. Even more beautiful than a bunch of bright-colored flowers that danced in a garden. I hadn't seen the pair of eyes I longed for, yet I remember that they always managed to capture my own eyes into an oblivion of the thing they called deep affection. If I could, I would carve the words to describe the way your hair moved along with the wind, the way your glasses slightly moved down to the bridge of your nose as you leaned down, the way your eyes smiled as your lips did the same, the way your eyes would stare at mine like you yearned for them as well. The hope of having your heart homed in my palms had gone away with a tide. If I could, I would tell you how I considered your soul for the shine that lured an angel into flying right to you, making him fall from the sky, laughing. That your soul was beaming more than the way sunlight went through the brilliant kaleidoscope, kissing the ground where others had stepped in prayers. I can't deny that my feelings had gone deep. Yet I hadn't even breathed out the three syllables to potray it. It went beyond deeper than it. My Capella. It's you. It's you that I welcome death with. You are my last train stop. You are the one I'd like to share my umbrella with in the rain. You are the one I'd like to share my candy with. You are the one I'd like to be buried next to.

 If the stars demanded for my soul in exchange of the slight touch with you, I'd reach out in a heartbeat.

The Spring is Blue (so is my youth)

 "I knew that teenagers sparkled. I knew they knew something children didn't know, and adults ended up forgetting."

—Lorde

Ever since I was a kid, I always thought that the spring was blue, light blue with the breeze that was scented by sun, with the laughters that adorned it. Sometimes I zoned out thinking about being a teenager. Like in the cartoons I watched. Like on the books that my mom bought for me. They had always potrayed teenager phase as an amazing thing that shaped us. That it sparkled like the glitters I used to always buy whenever I went with my parents to get my new stationery. 

And now I often think being a teenager is like running, barefoot, along the shore. While the sun is leaving, with the waves gliding. And the laughters of the people whom I love (that will never be enough). It's like the spring. It's blue. Blue like the sky, myosotis, blue raspberry popsicle. It feels like touching the white foams that were brought by the ocean. It smells like the raw scent of sea. Blue is different when I am just a teen who loves my life. It's light. It's nice. It's joy. 

I can't help but think that life is too short for me to feel and see everything as my teenage self that still won't forget what is it like to laugh with my friends till everything fades away in the background. Time passes quickly. I know where I am with. I am hysterical and useless. But I know that one day I'm going to sit in front of the grave of my memory. Watering it down with the rain from my one and only light in the blue spring. They look like the only things that keep my sanity up. Everything else is just a mere made-ups in my mind. They're the only ones my eyes were made to stare at. 

It's like seeing the sun get chased away by the night. The last bit of its light is lent to the moon. The sea isn't blue. The shine isn't reflected like I want. It's orange. It means I'm going to part from all of this thing. The only thing that looks real for me. 

White Foams of Waves Embraced Me

 

"To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering."

—Friedrich Nietzsche

The sounds of the crashing waves were blocking the scream of the voices. Like a white noise that cradled my rotting heart, the heart that was pulled out of my ribcage. 

I was not living, I was simply existing.

Emotions and feelings were things that shaped humans. Joy, sorrow, or resentment. We were made to feel. Why was our heart placed right inside of the ribcage? Why? Because it was too fragile and soft. Easily broken. Like a butterfly that would be crushed the second we stepped on it. Delicate. Humans held onto the word 'Love' tightly. Like a lifeline. 

Yet they still wouldn't leave when their hearts were torn forcefully from their weal—easily broken ribcages. Humans can be the frailest of them all, or rather, the ferocious ones of them all. Each one of them grabbed onto the thinnest string of promises ever known to naked eyes. Yet their eyes were blinded by hands of what they called 'affection'. The hands that clawed into their once gleaming eyes. Pulling them out in the name of Love. Humans can be the brainy ones, or rather, the pitiful ones. 

I was standing at a beach that I made up in my mind. There were many papers laying on the white pristine sand, joined by the glass shards. Each paper had its own words. My hand reached for one⁠—a light interrupted me. It cut off my one and only access to my past. As if letting me know that I shouldn't mourn upon what had passed.

Yet I couldn't forget any second from those moments where I actually lived. Not just existing. To live, then I must feel. It meant, I should suffer as well. But how foolish of me, to choose the way I die for nostalgia.

Human lives with the constant feeling of pain inside of their hearts. Their hearts are sensitive it makes living difficult. To be carefully loved so that we won't be accidentally broken by a slight touch, truly a privilege. To be shaped by the things they called love would be a pleasure, knowing to live.

Humans are delicate, but their feelings shaped them. Their hearts are enveloped by their frail bones. So that it won't scar easily. The pain from the open wounds.

But mortals were obsessed with torturing their own selves because of the word 'love'. That's just humans. Nostalgia will be the death of them. Each piece of past will go through their heads. Humans are sailors, and the sea is their memories. 

Nothing can capture the right way humans see something through their own eyes. Fireworks. Strolling around with their kimds. Laughing till they forget what's wrong. Humans had their own youths where the spring felt so blue. Light blue like the sky. A tide could wrap its claws around their hand, dragging them down to the seabed, and their minds would play trick to show them their best 7 minutes of lives. Passing their minds as their souls were pulled out, slowly but surely. 

When the night was full of terrors from their memory, tears would fill their gazes. The scariest thing is that—time will always pass no matter what. So humans live for feelings. Love and suffer. Yet they need to find the meaning of their lives. What could possibly happen when they let go of their nagging minds? 

Humans are stubborn, I am a human, so I am as well stubborn. I can't let the fragment of my past slip through my fingers. I need to hold on tight. No matter how much it's hurting me. I needed to find the meaning in my life, and memory is the reason I was made. I am a human. I am made to feel. Joy, sorrow, or resentment. Nostalgia will be the death of me. But it's fine, as long as I'll die with 7 minutes of the happiest flakes of my life buried next to my rotting corse. At least the flowers in the spring will be the scent of my demise. So I closed my eyes—

The ocean was so blue. The sky was infinitely blue. And I saw the three years of my blue youth, flashing through my ceasing mind.