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  • myrrhc 25w

    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.
    ©myrrhc

    "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)

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

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

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  • myrrhc 27w

    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.
    ©myrrhc

    thank you, @writersnetwork .

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  • myrrhc 41w

    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.

    ©myrrhc
    #Ltnothumansc
    thank you, writersbay. truly.
    my unworthiness curtseys to you guys.

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  • myrrhc 42w

    i wouldn't call it beautiful, because that's how everyone else terms it. they say you can have fourteen million six hundred five alternate commodities, and you are yet to begin with a diagnosis of only one. the sky isn't a multidimensional friend, and i wouldn't call it with a farfetched term. for the reason, and all the reasons, that i am only a glimpse of somebody else describing it the same, and wouldn't that have been my cliché?

    my dad once spoke "if you feel like the rest of your sentence is something you can't justify to explain or say in words, don't finish it" as the illogicality of being apart but barely existing against each other, not even between a spoonful of white sugar and an adjacent full moon.

    it's today upon all days and in quotations i wouldn't say that i can write without keeping myself out of my own thoughts, the numbers and the probability miscalculated to say that any of it is a coincidence. but they asked me to define this one thing; upon whom i couldn't call multidimensional or the term, beautiful, that they usually overrate. but it's the closest thing to the sky, from me and back to it, that he is

    (©myrrhc)

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  • myrrhc 48w

    why in the world did i remove that? bc it felt so personal and i'm sorry.

    *insert it all back.

    // merry holidays (i'm late) and a good new year to yall //
    just came by.

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  • myrrhc 50w

    it would've been easier if it were paper planes. but not paper boats or origami figures, or some jammed up printed sheet when writing a letter didn't seem like it needed a hard copy. "you teach a child to write with a pencil and not a pen, and you start in single spaces to cursive and then to calligraphy." and that's in it for your penmanship.

    negative twenty five degrees celsius to thirty is the emotional range of woodpeckers, written in parallel lines that travel south every winter; say, supposedly, a hundred eighty and more species can vary in distinction with a comparator of a billion more crystals that roughly contain in a cubic foot of snow. which exactly points that, as one can tell obviously, this statistical comparison is undeniably unfair.

    i like to think of the moon that way, but as a rubik's cube other than a stationary snowflake. and although they don't come as high as a kilometer from the ground in non-wintry seasons, their silhouettes cast off the absence of color which makes me wonder how close they really are to space. should the mountains differ from being by the shore when we are under the same space (not under but everywhere, as john green once said). with my legs hanging by the thick mango branch, and the leaves swaying, partially covering two and a half quarters of the view, it doesn't seem too bad to be out here in a not-so-scary height just to see what the night looks like when you're a few feet nearer to it. or how else it would've felt when someone specific was beside.

    you come to think of all figures and pieces that tie together what most say as round, but zoomed out into a wider, and wider, and wider angle, it only becomes a dot. points don't come in shape when they're seen afar. just as i am; as everybody else being a speckle of everyone else's visible spectrum. but no better than being compromised to imagine less in the dark.

    it managed to feel like a metaphor to me now, no longer tied as a fear. because even if i use my hands as binoculars to imagine that the moon isn't some kind of folded paper children play to disguise the corners of a world, i see it the way you do there. darkness is just pitch black, the same concept and view we get of the stars wherever we may be. for it is not illusionary, but a camouflage.

    and i am blessed to write it down from where i can remember, to when i'll foresee; as a paper plane of sky colored paper, in white lines across the sea.
    ©myrrhc

    woah, woah. am unworthy of all the recognition really.
    thank yall so, very much.
    thank you, @mirakee & @writersnetwork . *hart hart.

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  • myrrhc 53w

    "i know that i'm not the first person in the world to say 'i love music; it saved me.' but that doesn't make it less true." -keah brown.

    i can't remember when i last saw the sunset, but i've been waiting for it in eight days time. that i'm just sitting on this bench, by the porch, near the shoreline, with the little doggo whose eyes never tire of sticks and bones.

    i've seen it for the ninety ninth time, the hundredth wouldn't look a little different, would it. but that doesn't mean it is of lesser value.
    ©myrrhc

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  • myrrhc 53w

    "something about looking up always makes me feel like i’m falling." -davis pickett (John Green's Turtles All The Way Down)

    i know there are times, which is often, when the moon fails to align in between the two massive trees in the front yard, and i sometimes imagine it so as a variable in math. there are infinite probabilities to substitute a number for a letter to assume a given equation, and that's it for an infinite set of circumstances. but that's not the situation, isn't it.

    the moon, in prograde motion, rotates around our planet in counterclockwise when viewed on the north pole. that's how west to east supposedly explains sunsets and sunrises, as how often we play hide and seek with it. it's not technically a favorite spot, not a superior angle either, but when the moon is placed perpendicularly between these tall trees, it always looks like an unfinished middle line of the capital letter H. a point in other words, which every line is made of, that shifts temporarily and permanently in that sense.

    "tonight, under the sky, she asked me, 'why do all the ones about me have quotes from the tempest? is it because we are shipwrecked?' yes. yes, it is because we are shipwrecked." davis pickett knew not how to write straightforwardly, john green in that manner made the character as so. a writer in between their pages can simply doubt the essence of their words when served on an empty platter. so they choose to hide it in figures of speech instead. maybe that's how you paint the same views from the same color palette. remembrance is just a key term used to indicate an unfaded memory, and that's exactly the emotion sunsets give.

    when my dad was younger, he told me he used to wake up by five in the morning to head to the ocean. and although i've always wanted to do the same ever since he said so, i never really had the courage to. maybe that's how davis, green i suppose, spoke about wreckage in between moments. like as if we are ships in motion, but not necessarily abandoned. only stranded to keep in pace with things that remain constant over time, and i find that beautiful.

    maybe the moon and sunsets, sunrises and oceans, aren't as consistent as the stars and trees. but they'll tell you about it in days and months and years, and so. because variables are flexible yet they remain unchanged. a thought, a thought, and a thought always begets another; and aren't we an assumption with no specific logical equation.
    ©myrrhc

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  • myrrhc 53w

    what does it take to fill in the spaces, when your head-proposed-plan on the second quadrant of your father's chessboard fails to align. i think that's how being so intricately objective becomes some sort of a disadvantage because even in the first few moves, you can initially read your opponent's attitude. and that's how one can manage the rest of the game. it is, in fact, fleeting.

    the stars were invisible today, unlike most days in february or march but often in september or the month after so. the rainy season, they termed it, and if the name doesn't give it away, i am sixty seconds early every time, to watch the sunrise with a mussy head and my teeth grinding to this sky that precedes light over wonder. "you can’t let the light catch up with the present," john green once said, and i slip my hands inside the pockets of my jacket. the light that breathes miles and miles away stands before eyes that couldn't speak the same. maybe somehow, green wasn't talking about the stars or the vastness of the sky (just so, he always has that secondary meaning in his words anyways). but maybe of photographs, a play between light and time, stuck between eyes and polaroids, of memories you cannot not bring back without the emotion you've carried with it once.

    a-long-term-memory-fueled-by-the-essence-of-a-moment, that's how it usually works in most days, and dreams, and stars, and people who gradually become for when and not for whom. if we're only cascades of an occasion with a momentum, i fear not, is based on gravity, then we're just a matter of dilation. constantly being pulled by this blackhole we know nothing of (unless of course that it's a suction, a term so general for it to be classified over anything else). that's just the exact comparison to dreams, in that case. perplexed by and by for the number of days or a week or so maybe, that i cannot remember having any of those.

    "we cannot simply say that emotional state affects memory. the nature of the emotion being felt is also important. and this, too, is not straightforward. we cannot simply say, for example, that anxiety impairs memory and happiness improves it." (an article once said)

    that's perhaps how you connect the dots between having to believe in this reality and the truth your memory lane says. i remember, sometimes in link with feeling, that i cannot grasp plans without being so anxious about it. overthinking about the future being intertwined with this moment i'm wasting for trying to predict something i'll never know unless if it has already happened; the spontaneity of things, and the zillions of probabilities.

    so last night, i was trying to write something. flipping my words in the spaces between my fingers but i couldn't see which move i should make for a prospect i know not about. not even in the basis of my personality or everyone else's, or the stars that reflected no alignment. but my memory and yours, something that is out of our sights, barely even manage to stay after we wake up. yet some dreams, they're of clarity that up until now, they linger in play with light and time, moments i am utterly in wonder of. for an ending i just didn't see or in that sense, remember.

    because "you can’t let the light catch up with the present," my timeline may not be in line with yours. but somehow, i am in between these dimensions, just looking at stars beyond the sunrise's light, and yours with the darkness still sixty moments away; from a slacked up bewilderment and the belonging of one sky.
    ©myrrhc

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  • myrrhc 54w

    i'm sorry. i was mad.

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