Blank

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
Dickens made it look like the most paradoxical piece of my everyday life. It sometimes feel like I deserve to thrive yet somehow feel like I need to let myself drown, swim in my own ocean, sink deeper into the abyss of my blues and discover secrets of my own. It never seem to me like magic; it's terribly sad to shape up the madness inside my heart. For who knows how long, I'd rather not be born so I could never have to sojourn in the empty spaces of a once beautiful life. All those literature pieces, all the beautiful synecdoches written in free verses, and all the figurative connotations inked in vintage-old paper, are things I dream of becoming.
I want to be one with them,
become someone with letters on their skin, someone that can be perceived by people finding sense in the world.

I long to be someone with words ready to be read.

It's been a while and I'm filling a vast expanse of the universe from my absence. I had a hard time finding significance as to why I've been this way.
Maybe I'm losing faith in myself and in the profound shape of ideas girdling at the bottom of my mind. I find it hard to retain my own pace as I keep telling others to do the same. Obnoxious and hypocrite I am; I always stand tall, telling people the words they wanted to hear, the same as I wished for.
Hearing their stories just as I wanted to be heard.
Keeping them close just as I wanted to be held.
In this mess of time, I'm wanting to be filled, to not be completely blank.
I want to be stirred with every melodramatic feats, to not be stale anymore—
I want to be full of life.

I eagerly want to live out of this nothingness,
to get out in this blank page in my life,
to live so vibrantly that the darkness within me would be concealed with bright lights,
that even I, would forget I

ever existed.

…