Till I

The sunrise came late.

The second-half of the year had always been like this.

But I was, and I am, noticing that there was nothing the same from the previous ones. The way the sun sets a little late, leaving remnants of light a little longer for the nighthours. The way the rain stops too late and goes too fast. The way the dynamic shifts slightly, partially, until fully different from the previous counts of the sun.

The way as I, the traveller, the silent tale-walker, knead a thread of story to warm my shoulder from piercing white nights. The long thread of stories, forged by surrealism, individualism, realism, and Kara-ism that no one ever understood after I put my understanding to every single thing in every place I ever stood.

I notice how the traces of hesitant steps slowly disappear, mingling with the new spark of ashes and sands and clashing grounds along the way. The stepped paths were reformed, reshaped into something unnoticeable, buried behind. Became the uncertain memories reside within the corner of my heart, waiting to be provoked. Waiting for new encounters to happen at its finest.

I notice how a trail of blazing monochromic shade fills my torn canvasses. Screaming silenced words become the results of my scarred typing hands. Phrases of resistance are born inside my running thoughts. The images of tender vagaries of mine in the past of mine begin to reform its figure before my eyes.

And I, ever the dream’s painter, flick a single red on the monochromes.

A little red.

However, what’s next?

Which lead of this path I shall follow?

Heaven’s curtain call, or hell’s divided wall?

There were names, coming from fleeting memories, forging the light out of worries, pointing out the mental necessities. Poking at the sensations of my senses …

“Someone will wait for you there. See them, never forget your steps.”

“Shall you forget, then remake it with something else.”

“Let the red guide you, as how you guide the jadeite sunrise to find its way as an ethereal rising shine.”

And I could not, I can not, ignore those tender lies. Nor forget how it is so promising, cause, really, it was an unspoken vow of something more treacherous than a vow between souls.

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As raw as it was. As cherished as it was.

Thus, I take it all.

And there were none. No trace of someone has been gone. No remark of something has been dimmed after shone. Dark and unthoughtful as a dead phone.

Places where cries were swallowed down, forehead forming frown. A quiet temper saving for a crown, for someone who refuses to kneel down to kiss the ground.

I, the tale-keeper, is stunned for an Interstellar’s second. Not remembering even a piece of my own incantation, of which I reclaimed every single night as a prayer in repetition; of when I, and I, and I, and I, and me, wandering until I find the corner of the sky alone, without a destination, or with a clear option.

Cause the option is clear, is it not?

The option and the incantation. The hope of the listener, writer, tale-walker, and cosmic surrealism painter:

Don’t let me by my own wound.

Cold old dreams I shall wash away from you.

I am no longer the face to fade, for if I am nothing of a soul to be bound.

Like Lazarus I’ll be awakened to be a new and firmer one of me.

Breathe this peace, find the pieces.

Till I find it:

the light from the home that shines a call for the curtain not to shut down — I preserve with the love and warmth it deserves.

Happy birthday, me.

Knead your next and upcoming years with more tales and feels to caress. ❤