The Diary of a Late Bloomer (120)

“So come on, tell me. Is this the end?”

Letters to four letters word 9

Dearest you, I find this quote especially inscribed in my mind ‘memory is a funny thing’, it is from the novel “Norwegian Wood” by Haruki Murakami, he is an author with strong sense of ‘cosmopolitanism’. I remember, I once told you about him. Do you know what is the different between nostalgia and critical memory? All we once had, every bits and pieces is always stay put on my memory jar. Reminiscing those moments bring me to a state of chronic nostalgic. I can understand you have been in constant state of being preoccupied, I won’t beg anything from you, I have been saying the word ‘sorry’ often to you in my letters, I’m afraid it will lost its meaning, but I did mean it when I said it to you. This song I’m currently listening to, it reminds me of us, is it okay to you if I refer to you and me as ‘us’? I guess you know, you never really just a friend to me but I don’t want to name us. Ah, I name us already, by saying ‘us’. Dearest you, it seems, it seems, I can’t shake those memories, the memories that remind me of you. I wonder if you feel the same way too?”

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The Diary of a Late Bloomer (107)

I have got to know what is and is not mine.

Letters to the four letter words

She wrote yet another letter to the soul she cherished, it was the second letter she wrote after the one she had written, and she was writing this one facing the window of her dormitory with the view of the starless skies tonight lied bare in front of her, as serene as her heart in undistorted solemnity. The same song of Yellow Ribbon accompanied her crafting the words in her mind, she didn’t know exactly since when the song became her song of remembrance. She made tangle words hoping her feelings conveyed well through every letters she had been written all this while.

My dear, my heart is still in prison. It is custodied. It has been quite a while. ” She was drown mourning the reality she might see, she wasn’t sure if she would ever have the guts to send the letters and all the pieces she had been written for him at face value, but she cared about it the least. “I will begin with a poem for you this time, my dearest, let’s see how it goes. I may be sound to unbearably cheesy for you. I’m so sorry, my thoughts are poured best in words. I wonder, what do you think about it once you read it. So here:

A letter to love

She breath, breath heavy

She wait, wait steady

She love, love steamy

She torn, torn hard

She gather, gather start

She stray, stray forward

She dream, dream pinnacle

She stream, stream tentacle

She trap, trap gullible

She cry, cry overdue

She wipe, wipe residue

She mourn, mourn blue

For love, to glue

How does it sound to you? And after all this while, amidst myriad of the typicals you, you are still my favorite person. You once said you love my writings, that’s why, I want to do more of it. I’m about to hit the sack now, you probably already are. So, I will end this letter for you. My dearest, don’t be so preoccupied, if only you knew it envied me to the bone-dry.”

A crooked smile made form on her gloomy round face as she slowly tried to close her eyes. She had been a girl who was madly in love and love had been in love with her. She refused any negation and made believe affirmation.

Song of Solitude (7)

The rose will bloom, it then will fade. So does a youth, so does a fairest maid.

Sweeter than honey and bitter as gall

Love is a pastime that never will pall

If leisure could be commodified into merit goods, it was to her into filling up her wonders. She found herself staring at the scenes and she was humming in her head following the lines from “Romeo and Juliet” as she cautiously made a repetitive nods, “Some may think only to marry. Others will tease and tarry. Mine is the very best parry. Cupid he rules us all.” There was a sudden burst inside her stomach and her internals were jolted ups and downs in apocryphal manner; she tried to scrutinize the intention, if she had always known why it was. “What most expected to be suck out from the day is the essence, even what constitutes vital is varied from one head to another. And once done gathering the buds whilst the prime is still within the grips, we are expected to tie a knot. That’s how an ideal “Juliet’ of bygones epoch. Who’s to blame for our span cutting off short? For chances of soaring high are long predetermined to be of value, if we follow the flows of social constructions.” It was to her not aptly accused, for such constructions could run arid of if given a chance could have blossomed, if late to bloom.

She air altruistic, she wasn’t denied a higher consciousness, it would make her devoid of it, if so the contrary she believed. It was to her an endless ruminating, she best chose to parry, if some thought to marry but she held dear future story. She carried on studying the lines of multifaceted interpretations from the scenes that served her night an air of contentment, “A rose will bloom, it then will fade. So does a youth, so does the fairest maid.” She rendered each words like an amateur spoken words poet, it was how in its inherently animated nature, life’s certainty lied in its transitory leap. “This is what he was once said.” She ceased in a while and let her succumbed deep in her river of elongated wonders.