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Either once in a week or dozen times a month, I have let myself run free without any remorse for my ill-coated writings. It is that time of the day again when I seem to have lost meaning to my senses. I have read each of these lines like a broken plaque pleading to be fixed but I just could not utter a few more words to life. Even this far is a mere silhouette of recycled phrases described as if of significance. The failing sanity that tiptoes in the corners of my mind shreds a thousand wordings and neither has coalesced to my understanding. It is a series of ellipsis aligned all over my skin as if a never-ending trap of abandonment. It's a driving madness for days and weeks and months and years until my mind turns into a bone-dried barren life.
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And in midst of all these, what I hate lingers in my ears like a trace of shattered glass when I run out of words to replace it.
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The nakedness I feel when I type in my mind raw and without disguise is not as bare and disgusting when I am left with nothing to sugarcoat what I truly feel. My anxious mind has forsaken the natural flow of what I wanted to convey thus leaving me with a hollow scar. It instills in my mind like a hidden pity as massive as the complexity of writing what I cannot write, as little as making any sense at all. And when desperation creaks in, it's either I have let those demons devour my creative soul or peel off the life out of my paper-thin palms and make them talk poetry. But then, it has fed off my mind like a tireless work of thoughts I cannot connect.
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They were words written again and again without endings, without a body, without a system that works for them. They were meaningless phrases. They were sick-made wonders left unanswered. They were...
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Enfeebled. Enfeebled. Enfeebled. Enfeebled. Enfeebled verses—the screeching shouts of a flawless dim that lies dead in my ember tongue at a lawless repeat. I don't know what comes next. I fear what comes next. It's as if my wisdom and gift have left my limbs to an almost shrink that what I desire to express is just as frail. Like the drowning sense of finding life through the unknown, it spells the same curse all the time as if a halt to my breathing. One that murders my thinking, the cut amidst the line of what I perceive, the shallow narrow hollow sorrow... I don't know. Or maybe just as is. Because I have written on tangled sheets hoping to renounce something worthy of colors but I cannot seem to. I am merely writing so I can draw out the realization of life that I cannot see just yet. What is there to see through empty words?
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But if I will just run free; be deserted; drown all at once, perhaps I wouldn't feel the need to fit in between rhymes and prosaically woven sentences. If I happen to tear off everything I have scribbled into, maybe I shall live a dull life without having to find it strange in any way. I will have no idea of how words can rewrite such ugly phantasms and turn them into art. I will have no idea how it feels to have found something you can reside into without the fear of getting your cover blown. And I will have no idea how wordsmiths patch up their scars in the form of thriving facades when nudity becomes a hand to the throat. Because I wouldn't know the power of writing.
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But here you are, mate. You have made more than what that looks like.
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@rks.wuhdrelis
A warrior of liberty. With ink stains on her mind and soul. Maayong adlaw! This page contains the information you might want to know about the author. She goes by the name Arques and is under the username @rks.wuhdrelis. She lives in Cebu, Philippines, and is a proud Bisaya. She is a listener of music and is currently drowning in the rhythm of her pop-punk playlist. And she reads too, either depressing or hilarious books. Words from MJ, btw.
Arques is an 18-year-old girl, on a mission to her dream college and a writer wannabe is her reputation. There's a thin line between writing and music that enthralls her mind to scribble every time she has a chance to. To write is to dream and to dream is to be free. Except for nightmares, she believes so. She fancies writing prose poetries that is usually about childhood, life, love, tragedy, something peculiar, or even unnamed emotions. Stay tuned!
