Destruction in Four parts.

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Unsteady, this life,
Falling into the pages,
Between others stories,
Encouraged by mere words,
Finding neither the end or the beginning.

Unsteady, these dreams,
Built from dusk to dawn,
Unraveled thread by thread,
Forced into the misery of now.

Unsteady, Blaming none,
These dark inked fingers,
Washing the evidence of blood,
These bruises of defeat,
paying an ode to the carcass of memories.

Unsteady, Moving ahead,
Breathing, smiling,
Tripping into the furnace
of naive hopes and mad dreams
once again.

I haven’t written in a while now, the words wouldn’t come to me. When words become your friends, their alienation hurts. You can’t complain to anyone about them, just that  the loss is a ghost pain. So when they do come back, I celebrate!Gregariously and morbidly even. As always, the mending of a broken person is a treasure trove of inspiration.

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Confessions : Of Uncertainty

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The whirlpool of “what ifs” is terrible. Running around in circles of uncertainty can make even the most confident person falter their step. I’m not sure when I wrote this little piece, for I have moved far too many times to far too distant places, dreamed of it even. But now that I re-read it, the timing seems apt and a love far too real gets left behind again.

 

 

 

 

 

This is a part of Confessions Series. Written and forgotten in old sketchbooks, bought to life again here.

Confessions : Of Dreams

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One of the reasons I dream of Travel is the same reason why I don’t bother to make ever lasting connections. This little confession of mine has sort of formed who I am today, a vague image of my dreams.

 

 

 

This is a part of Confession Series. written in old sketch books as reflections of my past bought to life here.

 

 

Confessions: Of Reason

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They say old habits die hard. I say the only reason old habits/people/things stick around because we reason with ourselves that the murky history is essential, because who are we if not for our pasts ?

 

 

 

 

This is a part of Confession Series , little figments of writings scribbled down in old sketchbooks bought to life here.

 

Confessions: Of Hope

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Everyday when I step out of my house, I tell myself that hope is the worst feeling to take with you when dealing with the outside world. But occasionally you give in, you give in to be hopeful about something or someone. It is at these points that you are the most vulnerable too, because hope and disappointment are strange partners that come in pairs of two. I don’t remember when I wrote this note , but it seems like I’m hopeful once again and keeping an eye out for things to fall apart.