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And again, I was tired. I am tired of everything and everyone. I'm tired of seeing the same things and doing the same shit over and over again, and I know for a fact that escaping this place isn't easy as it sounds. I'm trapped; the chains are heavy and unbreakable. Although all locks have a key, the key to escaping this prison is nowhere to be found.

I wish I didn't feel this way, but I can't help it. Despite all the effort I exert into freeing myself, I'm still stuck here. Wherever here is.

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Upon reading Air Gear chapter after chapter, I found myself immediately fascinated by the sky. Looking at the bright blue horizon and the fluffy, marshmallow clouds, I felt instantly comforted by the mere thought that the entire world shares the same sky. Though people may be miles apart, in a sense, the sky bridges us together and constantly reminds us that world is not as infinite as it seems.

Seeing birds being able to fly as they please, I began feeling sad for humankind for not knowing the freedom which these birds unknowingly possess. They are able to ride the wind so freely and from such great heights, they look down at us with their black, beady eyes as if we were nothing but prisoners chained to the ground. With a flap of their wings and a rustle of their feathers, they create the wind that they need to fly while we struggle to free ourselves from the weight of our burdens.

Would it be blasphemous to ask the heavens why we were given feet instead of wings?

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Truth be told, the main reason why I found myself dragging my feet off to the busy streets of Taft was because I wanted to see you. I didn't go there because I missed my friends, nor did I visit because I had academic obligations. This morning, I pushed my body to my limits in high hopes that I would at least catch a glimpse of your face. I hurriedly took a bath, rushed to the bus stop and prayed to the heavens for at least a chance to see you.

As the hours flew by, I grew more and more confident that the fates would be kind and allow me to meet with you this fateful day. I was never patient, but I did my best. Though I had no assurance or whatsoever, I waited and waited and waited even until I realized that you would never come. I found myself hanging on to the sliver of hope that I would see you before the world before me spins uncontrollably.

All I wanted was to see a smile from your pretty, little face because I'm sure your smiles are more comforting than any holiday. 

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For quite some time now, I've been feeling numb. I'm alive, but I'm just another deadman walking. I can barely feel anything, and I hate it. If the basis for being alive are having emotions, I might as well be a rock.

#1

My fingers will always write your name whenever my eyelids grow heavy, whenever my head is enveloped with a thick cloud of reveries, whenever the wall between reality and dreams have crumbled. I will write about you until my fingers are weary and calloused, until my hands shake, until the candle flickers and the flame slowly is extinguished, the darkness enveloping the entire room, the only light coming from the space between the wooden floorboards and the door that creaks with every gentle breeze.

Let my last breath be an utterance of your name and my last act, other than the obligatory tragic recollection of the numerous regrets that I’ve buried on one January evening, be a solemn scene in which I will hold this book dearly, my lips curved into a small smile as I fondly remember the curve of your neck that I used to kiss, those hands that I lovingly held whenever I could.

They will not remember me, the lonely writer who dedicated herself to you, but they will remember you every time they see the spaces in between every line and every word and and how you have inspired me to write poem after poem, page after page.  You will continue breathing in the minds of those who have read about you, and you will never cease to exist. You will live in these pages, your blood, the ink, your body, this book. 

Written last January 2012.