The Diary of a Late Bloomer (46)

I design my future bright not by where my life has been.
And I try, try, try, try, try again.

To only find out the heart of a young girl as vurnarable and brittle

As easily torn and scattered by words and remembrances

Age speaks a mere number; as it serves plain in color

It does insignificant for the fruit to ripen

If anything, somewhat backwards but somehow manage to have its way of becoming still


I’m glad to be alive


The Diary of a Late Bloomer (43)

I know plenty of people with eyes closed
They don’t see you like I do
She doesn’t lose faith yet of the existence of long seek another half, whether it will lead her to the destined one, it is of little important to her, because the tought of bumping into him more than enough she could ever ask. She keeps in store the story of her future romance to bloom in the right time. When time finally allows her to craft another chapter with him, it will be the time she has done with herself and he with himself. It is to be answered by the passing time, to be revealed in yet another page. She is aware of in no position to beg for difference, to know forth who is to hold her hand in the coming days, but she begs him to be a person of the same values. She wants to wander her wonder still, she feels like fasting the time forward, she feels lonely sometimes, solitary no longer serves her satisfaction like it used to, she is afraid of playing act strong, but she keeps on going at last. With the hope holds still in her heart, she falls in love with the mental projection of her future lover. If it leads her to no one, much as it does matter, the least she could do is loving herself. I know I’m love. I’m always in love.

Confession to Broken Lady (15)

Sounds of laughter, shades of earth are ringing

Through my open views inciting and inviting me

As if to whisper her a cue from the universe it kept on bugging to seek and discover: of the truths of layered in the world of finite in infinitesimal detail. It crossed the message to further ponder it through, “Fame and tranquility can never be bedfellow.” She strolled passed the road with ease, she could only think of what could have been, if everything was done in a complete reverse. As sought after contentment, this too she would one day yearn of being. Of laying bare thought without any prejudice. How it could possibly be ruined by the hulla-ballo of noise begging for a glimpse and worrying of missing; the possibility of lesser significant. “How many questions will be left unanswered? By the reason of time killing in pursuit of bound to lose from  the grip. Why even bother asking to make intricate what could be simpler? Either?”