Absence.

Do you know that period in your life where something is just not there?

It's like a perfectly free summer day - there's nothing to do yet, there's nothing to finish, nothing to work on, nothing to even think about (and by this i mean mathematically) and theres just nothing to be worried about - but, you cant find anything to do.

It's like eating halfway through a supposed chocolate filled biscuit. You finish half of it because, upon your bite-that-would-reach-the-halfway-mark bite, you realize that the very essence of the biscuit, the chocolate, just isnt there.

It's also like studying for math. YOU KNOW THAT YOU JUST HAVE TO, but you cant. In fact, you almost actually study, but you are not motivated in continuing to do so after the first five minutes.

It can also be compared to irony of love. You know its there, yet it feels otherwise. The absence of the truth and the very essence of love disappears and all you have left are the words and actions that you thought you showed - or at least what you know to have had.

And lastly, it is also like words. Words are just letters strung together to form a collaboration of different sounds and pronounciations.
There are no meaning born with words, you attach it to them.

On the contrary, though, there would be meanings, but there would be no words.

Only One Last thing to Do

When words become dust that the wind blows away,

and when spoken admirations are all but superficial confessions,

there is but one last thing to do.

There are no more words to be spoken,
too much have already been said.

If the greatest mystery is the silence that sleeps,

and if the largest secret becomes the consuming fire,

there is but one last thing to do.

It was wrong to have even kept it hence,

too much have already been lost.

When actions become routines of passion,

and if hands and feet are all but waves blown by the sea,

there is but one last thing to do.

However, in the end, you only think that there is but one last thing to do.

Just thinking.

The last thing to do, is not doing anything at all.

Unspoken Attraction

Well I have it.

Specifically, i have it towards this girl and

Personally, i think she's just simply lovely.

However,

Honestly, it's been very hard,

obviously, to keep it all inside.

In fact,

Naturally, it should not be like this but,

Ironically, it feels otherwise.

Nonetheless,

Ideally, it feels good.

Actually, it's all just about...

painting words

So what will i write? art. Personally, art is something i consider to be anything creative made out of sheer unconscious talent. If anyone has the slightest inclination to disagree with that, then that anyone is, apparently, someone different.

These words are art. They do not discuss, or dictate, narrate, define or, the worst use for words, compute. In fact, i think words are put to waste when they form a sentence that presents you a problem where you are supposed to put some numbers together and do something about them.

Math, obviously, was a bad idea, wrong even, conceived by very, very bored people. All they do is sharpen their pencils to even sharper ones and grow their beards into long strands of dying old hair.

Paint your words. They're beautiful in the end.

This is how it was.

This is how it was when we spoke to each other,

when we talked and laughed and graced each other with smiles..

This is how it was when we walked with each other,

when we held hands and together gazed at the stars..

This is how it was when we looked into each others eyes,

when our sadness turned to joy and our pain into rest..

This is how it was when we loved.

This is how it was on that day.

This is how it was still.

This is how it was in my dream.

At least for me.

It was never in her to share it with me.