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  • myrrhc 13w

    "life is a series of choices between wonders."
    -john green's turtles all the way down.

    absolutely haywire.

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  • myrrhc 13w

    "have you tried fishing in these places before?"

    "once, with my dad." the leaves were rustling at every step as we headed for the river beside the woodland rays. the daylight wasn't particularly bright nor warm. just enough to spill a sight suitable to see the crooked pathway.

    "he told me that there are seasons where the fishes are abundant," i continued. "and you don't need any assistive gear during those."

    "assistive gear," he repeated. "like spears and arrows, axes and daggers?"

    "crossbows and maces," i corrected. he smiled.

    the peak of autumn meant the presence of color schemes. usually, they'd range between red and orange, yellow and brown. when the leaves overlap upon each other, as though a smaller tree grew under a slightly bigger one, they'd give off a faded golden streak of gleam like the sun's rays. i hadn't been sure if i ever told him yet, but if you put your palm precisely under that line of light beneath the leaves shone by the sun, you are, by which, a witness of a heavenly body grasping hands with a portion of this world. it's like holding a part of the sky, a similar thing made from the same element the rain gives you.

    "how about you?" i asked.

    "what about me?"

    "have you been to a camping trip like this before?" i remembered the first time going to the mountains with my family. although the view was beautiful, exceptional, exciting, insert all other adjectives that describe the stars the same, i couldn't stop thinking about how the ground was continuously uphill. and the more we stepped, the higher we were. what exactly was the probability of us falling into this den of bushes that was actually a forest of trees below, and the number of broken bones limited to survive the way back home? yes, the journey was memorable, i could say. but breathtaking was a more fitting term to me. both literally and its figure of speech.

    "i've been to high places before, and those sceneries," he looked upfront. "definitely are one of its kind. but huge forests? not as of i can remember."

    "you don't overlook everything, do you?"


    "like snakes being around these branches or spiders on the tree trunks. worms under your shoes?" i looked at where we were stepping, the shades of leaves reflecting on ground. it reminded me of how john green described them. the sky being split looked like traces of cassiopeia.

    "no," he replied. overthinking, it might've been my middle name but i always knew he wouldn't do such a thing. "but it's just like walking at a park, don't you think?" he continued. "a city or a town park, but with maces and crossbows as you say. so it should be like taking a stroll through the woods sixty five million years ago."

    "definitely to not try and steal some fishes from their ancient rivers," i uttered. we laughed.

    the flowing water sounded closer the further we went. the birds were chirping as well, but not too loud either. they were dispersed high enough to stay on branches of trees median in height. this forest was always closely intertwined in equidistant symmetries, and i always thought i was the complete opposite of it.

    the river was already visible upfront. we stopped by the nearest tree as i tossed my backpack, and he placed his next to mine. i retied my shoelaces tighter as i focused on a creek that laid a little upfront. we headed there.

    the flowing water wasn't as strong as i expected, which was a great thing, of course, because falling into the depth of that i-don't-know-what-in-the-world-lies-in-its-dark-oblivious void was probably not a good idea. rocks were sitting by its sides and across, some huge enough for its surfaces to remain untouched by the stream. my dad once advised that between these solid platforms laid the most vulnerable paths of prey. i leaped through a few of these spaces, a meter fall by its edge, and i was going first as he followed behind. we stopped at the one with the least strong current as i could see a few fishes already jumping alongside.

    "salmon," he said from my back. i faced him.

    "and catfishes." i could see their whiskers flashing droplets as another jumped by. we both bent down on the rocks we were at, the space between these platforms managing as our possible source of dinner.

    "i'll try to catch it first?" i said as another one leaped by. he glanced at me then back to the flowing water.

    "since they're slippery, i'll serve as the second bait."

    i nodded in agreement. i wiped my hands on the sides of my shirt (wasn't anxiously sweating, was i?), prepping them closely on the little space this time. i looked upfront as a salmon, which i assumed was heading to our direction, rapidly curved itself for a jump. i raised my hands just in time to catch it, trying to grip its slimy skin. it slipped up and i grabbed hold of it again before it swiveled its body, leaping towards him. he moved fast enough to clasp its body, as they fell down the edge in the water below.

    there was a quote i remembered that virginia woolf said in her book "to the lighthouse." it went as, "so fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea." although he wasn't weightless and i knew not that he could (possibly, you know) fly, but he was like the wind virginia woolf described at that specific moment. not the clouds but the sails up on the sky, and not the sails but the clouds into these waters. and i couldn't tell if that were of any good at all.

    he was glaring at me, a meter below, arms crossed with his hips down in the water, as drops of the river streamed on his forehead from his strands of wet hair. i could still see the movement of the surface as the fish hurried away from him.

    "i, uh." i covered my mouth, trying to find the words at first, because i believed it was pretty much the most rude thing i could ever do to laugh at what in the world just happened. but i did, i laughed, a bit much i became teary. i looked back at him, expecting an eye roll or probably a punch or a slap (either of which i'd gladly accept), but as i did, he started laughing as well. i shook my head before kneeling down on the rock to offer him my hand.

    "i'm so sorry," i said, wiping my eyes with my other hand. "i didn't think that would happen. i should've warned you that you might fall belo--" and before i could process my words, i was already beside him, drenched the same, after he took my hand and pulled it. he laughed and so did i, our voices echoing amidst the trees nearby and the sound of the flowing water.

    i couldn't tell which part my head was remembering, which detail i couldn't tend to think. the ever-changing colors of light, splashes of autumn leaves' shadows falling and swaying by as they reflected on the surface of the water, or the way he was happy. i looked at him for a split second. sometimes, i whisper to God how beautiful life is, how infinite are the little things. we are tapestries, and we are astonishments of His marvelous wonder. but i glanced away just immediately as he faced me.

    "i think," he said. "there are edible mushrooms we passed by earlier. we can have those for food instead." i laughed a little and nodded in reply.

    the actual wind settled in, rippling the water as it did. i thought of the stars and the figures they lined we call as constellations, as if the waters don't show the same. at once, i wanted to say it out loud, how the river, this river, would take us back into the becoming of something that was beyond the lingual way of differentiating moments over photographs, something light and time couldn't capture in its exact. about how diane arbus said that "a picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know." and i knew in that moment that even if i could stick a camera under his nose, about how he was asking why i was smiling under my breath as we walked back to our bags, clothes wet and soaked, that i wanted to write my gratitude to green, woolf, arbus and more, for expressing things i myself failed to do so. that i wanted to freeze, in light and time, a genuine smile i hadn't seen yet. something i could hold to my palms, underneath the rain and the sun's rays. someday i pray for, someday i will.

    maybe my head was as messy as i thought it was. but perhaps this was what they meant, to be solely, utterly, indescribably, be in awe, as the little things are to be written. as prayers that are meant to come true.

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  • myrrhc 15w

    “I want to share something Virginia Woolf wrote: ‘English, which can express the thoughts of Hamlet and the tragedy of Lear, has no words for the shiver and the headache. . . . The merest schoolgirl, when she falls in love, has Shakespeare or Keats to speak her mind for her; but let a sufferer try to describe a pain in his head to a doctor and language at once runs dry.’ And we’re such language-based creatures that to some extent we cannot know what we cannot name. And so we assume it isn’t real. We refer to it with catch-all terms, like crazy or chronic pain, terms that both ostracize and minimize. The term chronic pain captures nothing of the grinding, constant, ceaseless, inescapable hurt. And the term crazy arrives at us with none of the terror and worry you live with. Nor do either of those terms connote the courage people in such pains exemplify, which is why I’d ask you to frame your mental health around a word other than crazy.”
    -dr. singh (John Green's Turtles All The Way Down).

    there is something about the word, coward, that takes off the bat from its letter w; which in turn would give you, coard, pronouncing a denotation of a cord or a chord. both terms that are supplements of connection. leaves, i'd say, are proportions of trees. letters scrambled to become the extent of what they can label as a pile in autumn, tumbled for decay. i don't think i may be of any difference from them, i think.

    i remember the quote that said "the eyes are the windows of the soul," whose author i couldn't really trace back with google search engine saying it was originally shakespeare's or plato's, or the french poet, guillaume de salluste du bartas, who described the eyes as “these lovely lamps, these windows of the soul." it reminds me of outerspace, maybe? you know, when you partially believe that you are something you thought you were only to end up realizing that this belief is an erosion from the actual meaning of things you are in denial of. oblivion, nothingness, withered, dried. we are wonders of varnished letters gathered from the same alphabet.

    sometimes i try to think about the transitions of people or things that stay as a proportion or a connotation to its primary meaning. that's what these leaves are made of, or english perhaps, made of a few words but a gazillion letters.

    earlier this noon, the rain was continuously pouring. and although i could no more count its drops than the number of times i thought i was ridiculous, the puddles appeared. and i was thinking, if people spoke the right language and knew the right terms, it would be as though the weather that tells you of wonder and makes you look up to sky and the moon. even if they couldn't see it, they knew it was there.

    it sounds so easy to be judged once the actual thing is there. when the house is fully built but with a creaking door, a healed broken leg but couldn't walk as straight yet, or my description of i, growing for this number of years, but still too filled with plot holes. maybe i can't say what it must feel like to be the actual thing. i don't know how bright the stars may have when overcasted, how many the leaves are when piled, how cold winter is when i only have rain.

    i wonder what it must be to have all the words, all the right ones. i wonder if it makes me any different.

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  • myrrhc 15w

    i'm not sure what the names of the other two raptors were, but it's interesting how the director thought of canceling out the beta first, otherwise known as blue, just before the actual fight began. jurassic world's climax didn't feel as though the typical type of plot summit where everything is haywire and the protagonist is empty-handed. it was written rather with an apex conceivable enough to realize that even dinosaurs come back to where they know they belong. which, when uttered that way, is kind of a common thing to actually say. it's otherwise called as the anatomical snuff box, in human anatomy.

    if you bend your wrist to your hand's pinky side, they term that as ulnar deviation. your thumb, moved to the back of your hand's side, is known as thumb extension. thumb abduction would be moving your thumb away from the rest of your hand's fingers. if you do these three motions at once while applying resistance, there will be visible muscle protrusions. the hole right there is what they term as the anatomical snuff box, bordered by these three muscles namely, extensor pollicis longus, extensor pollicis brevis, and abductor pollicis longus. otherwise easily remembered as the hand's three raptors.

    it honestly doesn't really stand out that much. perhaps in a way that tells you that the universe isn't in cue with a series of threads to pull a pattern of a triangle or a planet. or a rabbit maybe, because there aren't enough holes to magnify their existence so it's easier to make them shadows for things that are void of wonder. maybe my fingers can't be intertwined to become the reason of somebody else's happiness. sometimes i think of flashlights and camping, constellations and finding patterns on skies and the ocean and its seashells, but do they really mean something to others. what it may have been something magical to my eyesight is only deflected by everything i had always been wrong to say. i tell the world, you are incredible. you are filled with things i know am unworthy of. you are infinite and remarkable. but why do you feel so fragile? when i have had all the strength to keep myself together, always thinking that maybe i am only insane, unnormal, crazy. but what does it actually feel like to not be the odd one out?

    there is an emotion i always fail to explain, and perhaps it's just how the world can't grasp everyone who's on it. strands of hair pulled after a single brush, like letters stitched to become your name only for them to turn into words unknown most to yourself. i guess i'm one of the many that misunderstand myself too, and it's becoming too often these days. i stay, and i stay, and i stay, and i choose to stay but will the world do so too when space decides to slip me away?

    when i try to write the passed few days, it was all sadness that came in. i don't know why, but it felt like a trap and it wouldn't disappear unless i spill it. i can't continue stories like this, because i love happily ever afters yet i can't even give one to myself. do i have the right to decide too? i'm not sure if i have a place here, or if am even necessary. the non-lingual times of feeling like days are stuck in an unending climax. but i felt happy today, and i'm just afraid the world's going to take it away again.

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  • myrrhc 16w

    it's weird how much i think i'm too much of words yet they always feel like they're not enough. there are moments in my head that make me count the number of times i've talked about this and that, like a bicycle pedal, something you push and turn over to move forward. sometimes, you can feel the edges of words just downright stuck in your throat or jammed in your mouth seconds before you decide to swallow them back whole. it feels like a stone to me. not even just that. probably a rock even. a solidified something that gravity pulls into what your ribs house and just remaining stuck there, in between your lungs and the organ that tells you maybe you are alive (that could be the brain too, couldn't it. but you get the point). the thing is, there are perhaps so many things to talk about, so little space to fill in for the rest of your sentence's parentheses intended for the ideas you think but anxious to say. that's the problem perhaps. anxiety. it's even hard to distinguish for those who don't have chains tied around their meninges, better for those who have it around their skulls instead. or maybe not, if it becomes too tight the bones can also crush the vessels inside so there'd be physical plus mental pain now. but that really isn't the main point. as to what causes the invasives, the brain is its nemesis. it's just as quick as loosing the bicycle chain during the ride. the rest of the course in that case would be dependent on the inclination of the road and if your breaks are still intact (it's supposed to be brakes, but the former can possibly make sense if you think about it). words are easy to be undermined and that's undeniable. there are two sides of the coin as everybody else says, but not always an ocean under the sky. i feel like marceline's mother from adventure time was wrong when she said "the underside is lighter when you turn it around." not everybody is lying on a picnic blanket nor a bed of grass. sometimes what makes you fall asleep is the one that pulls you awake. for i've realized that i can't say anything more or less that can change the freedom of the world from taking or not, but perhaps i should at least fry my words a little less burnt. because they only either get stuck in your throat or downright swallowed back whole.

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  • myrrhc 17w

    "there is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion."
    —edgar allan poe

    i don't know which phrase do we have to leave from edgar allan poe's statement, should it have been something that makes it clearer but doesn't deviate from its particular meaning. formula derivations, from a particular root, which alter the equation in proportion to what is needed in play. does the worth of a dollar change if you substitute its first quarter to its last?

    "there is no strangeness without some exquisite beauty in the proportion," and i couldn't tell if synonyms commit the same crime.

    my brother always preferred milk over coffee, and i the other way around. mornings with either cereal or cream don't really have much of a difference for lactose intolerance. whenever the body reacts dramatically, mom would worry while dad would just nod. he'd always come knocking to say "you should avoid it for your mom at least," but a little rebellious to sneak in a portion of his ice cream when chances aren't at bay.

    suffocation always fit the ocean, mom once said when she refused to go swimming with us. dad never understood what drove that fear when time grew. he said that there was something always in link with the sky and the sea, not the color, but the way it feels. yet i always knew that the moon wasn't much of an interest to mom. "it's just the moon," she'd say as she spent just a split second fraction to take a glimpse of it in the binoculars, yet it only looked the same for her as to every moment i'd tell it's following us back home.

    there were instances when they left for a walk and the night was quiet for some time. i'd play chess against myself, but always tend to lose over the best probable moves thrown back. i mean, i do give way for recklessness to allow myself to win. definitely not biased that way. yet to think of it, perhaps time and its courses have the same thought: to remain in a straight line whilst staying secondary to space impingement. maybe one can always claim victory against itself when consistently in a battle against constancy, and that's only if a partial has the right to claim a win against its whole.

    can your mind really win against you?

    mom and dad seemed like polar opposites in my opinion, but of the same value. the square root of one belonging to itself becomes an endless stream of equals. a box inside a box inside a box of more. maybe i couldn't understand my mom the way my dad does, and i'd eternally remain wondering. but there's one thing i do know, that people can choose not to stray no matter the loss and severity of situations. perhaps, there's always something about the sky and the sea i could never ponder. we're all just interrogatives of each other waiting to be answered i guess. for there is no exquisite derivation without some variables in the proportion.

    thank you, @writersnetwork . ^^.

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  • myrrhc 18w

    what did words matter to a desert?
    -benjamin alire sáenz

    i can't tell how many times i have to throw the letters back and forth to find a noun, an adjective, a verb. i mean, who knows when, or where, or why you have to toss the dice to find a number no more or less than the amount of spaces between your toes. can you count the void even? no, which just says this totally doesn't make any sense. because maybe i'm just half the number your left, or i'm only medial to lateral, a hand, a shoe, an eyepatch. the distance you take coming back from where you were to where you are.

    it's just that i'm always stuck in an endless spiral, turning and turning in the tightening gyre like john green said. and the thing about spirals is that its circumference can never equalize the distance of its line, its endless line. from starting point to end point, shall i say, from the outward to its most inner void. the more you go, the more do you get into the middle of something that suffocates. life, i guess, is just this fixed radius. people are there for the fixed radius, this literal breathtaking, suffocating displacement over the entire distance.

    maybe we're just steps of everybody else's walks, or skips, or runs. my right, your right, my left and yours. i'm only built-in halves of words i cannot more or less understand, and it suffocates.

    thank you, @writersbay . :D.

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  • myrrhc 20w

    they couldn't, somehow, grasp the concept of having to brush your teeth with your wrist slightly deviated for that streak of icing by the edge of your second molar. because they believed that you are partially conjoined to become something you refused to eat. but they said if you count the number of steps you take from the shallows to the deep, you'll realize they aren't less than the bubbles that pop in between your teeth. because we chew a little more than what we can swallow often, but never take foot more than what we can step.

    if the birds understand not
    the concept of the sky,
    shouldn't we write the wings
    for other things;
    that know not to fly?

    at a vast scale of individual mirrors lining up in a department store, i could no more count its repetitive visuals than determine the differences each will have to prove its worth of being chosen. they all reflect the same, i'd say. each person, mediating every intuition as the only thing that's possibly visible in front of it. like a yellow flower amidst a garden more of the same, in which the only apparent distinction they have is their place.

    when i was small enough to fit in the dog house whose owners haven't drifted to a number no more than two, i could see the yard slowly being emptied with a picking stick and a trash bag of dried leaves. if circumstances are necessary, i'd reason out. being rebellious is in line with skipping classes or hitting a classmate, but not in avoiding chores, isn't it? but that honestly wasn't the main reason when the sun was up and my dad would sit on the porch step, counting to ten. i'd hide nowhere else other than a wooden kennel home with a holed roof, big enough to fit my childhood and a car engine you'll hear in the distance, saying maybe we'll finish the game tomorrow instead. so you'll wake up on your bed whilst falling asleep on the ground, again and again, until the hands that carry you decay faster than an autumn leaf adjacent to its decomposing tree.

    "there's food in the fridge," my mom would say whenever i woke up, over and over, until they'd remember what my meals had consumed.

    i loved the concept of time being solely intertwined with fate, but they didn't tell you of consequential decisions, when a tank no bigger than i didn't have enough room to breathe any more of life. "i could no longer brush my teeth nor chew more than i can eat," i'd tell my parents. "but i can still see myself in mirrors." and they'll never understand why.

    "it was like waking up one day with no teeth in your mouth. you wouldn't need to run to the mirror to know they were gone."
    -thomas edison (james dashner's the maze runner book two: the scorch trials)

    @say_me_krish // my gratitude to you guys' team for this challenge.

    ;-;. thank you truly. highly. very much. @writersnetwork .

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  • myrrhc 22w

    the truth is just a stack of squared tiles and a little bit of paint, like broken bicycle pedals at midnight with a destination seven miles away. she'd call it a mistake to travel without a set of extra wheels or tools or a bottle of water to leave your vehicle astray over another hungry passerby to stumble on by dawn and call it a miracle. she said walking had her easier without the bike because she knew that the grounds she'd pass were no more than twigs and stones and the rustling of leaves, and there were no extra wheels nor tools nor a bottle of water to leave when crossing didn't mean she couldn't make it beyond the roads that had to be abandoned, and no one else would've found her laid across an empty sidewalk. for years, they said, who would've ever knew that a reckless decision wasn't less than the forgotten trails of a traveler who couldn't tell which part to regret. for there were no guns to take to war, she said, so she parted in the least time she'd find a soldier awake. but little did she guess, and more she might've known, how a bicycle of whom she could've brought on her way home became a blessing to somebody else. 'i had the worst timing,' she whispered. 'and i can never do it right' for a traveler who's scared to face the day, will never make it by night. it's been years away, wretched and unstitched, would it matter even for a little if a fixed bicycle echoed not far came with the traveler holding gratitude she could no longer hear. 'i found her by a stack of squared tiles and a little bit of paint on where she laid,' he said. 'but i had the worst timing and i only found a broken bike.' and he insisted he wasn't courageous to have found her by then, because he believed it was too wrong for it to be called right. a lost traveler, whom he considered himself late, decided to mend things on his way home by day because he was too scared to travel by night.

    thank you, @writersnetwork .

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  • myrrhc 36w

    i don't have much time to write this. i'm just always running out of time, but i can't let this one pass.

    for @writersbay (and their kind hearts),
    to oblivion;

    i'm thinking of a pronoun that i can refer to it, a nothing, not-a-thing. which kind of interjects the purpose of this write-up, because i shouldn't be referring to anything at all. that's why it's oblivion. but in that case, there may not be any underlying interest for this. i mean, that should make sense because a letter is supposed to be "a direct or personal written or printed message addressed to a person," or a thing in another case, as merriam-webster dictionary dictates. but if your recipient doesn't end up reading it, will you still find the same essence in those words?

    there can't be anything i can accurately describe it. not even emptiness when there are gazillion micro-things in this adjacent void, swipe that out and you may have dark matter. i know, it's not something that is completely understood other than a zero being the midline between the positives and the negatives. can't multiply, can't divide; and against itself, it is stuck in an endless loop, over and over in repetitive thoughts.

    if you think about it, space is much more closely defined as infinity rather than absolutely nothing at all. there are times that i can use this word against and with myself. contradicting points to the lack of purpose, or any overpassed bias, because maybe nothing is only a figure of speech we obtain to define something we cannot afford to describe.

    there is a blank slate between you and the sky whom one calls nothing when it's dark, and the properties of people being subjected into dreams that may or may not simplify the concept of barely existing. ask the little child which flying kite she'd choose when the moon was learning to peek under the tree trunk's arch, and the light was preserving not a single string. she'd tell you she couldn't choose, because the night was sleep deprived.

    it's easy to fear oblivion, as if it is a choice to be afraid. perhaps it's just the same concept as to key holes and baggage counters, off to a limited phase that tells one your purpose isn't the definition of somebody else's things. you are ought to be remembered, cannot not be forgotten, all things as it shouldn't naught remaining in succession to a was, an is, as it will be.

    i tell myself often that perhaps i am nothing in this world, because i know not my grand importance. but the absence of a particularity doesn't magnify the concept of nothing. there might be no root in my words. no thing, no order, no interest, no matter, not-a-single-thing to be objected as anything. but it should, at least, be a collection of undefined words. any kind of worth you can divide right above this zero, will remain oblivious when always in an adjacent state.

    and to this oblivion, most people might end up fearing. it is, therefore, a gift. a pronoun you can use to write a letter to, when the rest of the explanatory matter doesn't make more sense.

    thank you, writersbay. truly.
    my unworthiness curtseys to you guys.

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