Cesca’s Box (stuffs I wrote back then)

what if you’re asked to give something tangible? Something that smells like, sounds like, feels like, looks like… Though the rest is still unknown, how much it matters to me how it feels to be on the other side. To be the scent that I smell, to be the subtle hum to my ears, to be the breeze that sweeps leaves unto my steps, to be the fog of a shadow before me. What is it like to be on the other side, to look like there’s always sunshine after the rain, to feel like everyday is to think about someone, to live like there’s a reason to look forward to, to have faith that every tear has a reasonable depth, to believe that every star sleeps next to our dreams, to be the one to look unto the sky and see a face that to the world means nightfall, but to you means the world, the spirit of existence, the joy of every smile, and the very core of your being. What does it feel to be content of all the things we know, by just being on the other side- to be the one to love and to know what it feels like to look after someone, to care for someone, to believe that there is someone like . . .

me

who all along, sits here, and doesn’t know a thing about all those things we think that exist. We are only barren, struck, hoping that someday they will unravel that what we knew all along… was after all, for realz.

—

For now, you see me like a piece of art form. Posed to portray
happiness, love and even mystery. Happiness is in the face of a girl
with the smile that she hides on her hair and things. Love portrayed on
the way her eyes glinted something precious. Mystery portrayed unto her sillhouete, the way she is cautious… perhaps unsure but unsurrendering.
moving but not completely mobile. she is but…

the art of waiting

she waits while melting…

—

Perhaps that’s what we are all about. A beautifully twisted sunshine
that you keep on hanging lose below the hills. To not to expose it at
full lenght sunshine. Cause it is when it is on half view on outskirts
of any view that it is utmost beautiful. That’s why it’s utmost
breathaking on sunset and sunrise. While it is half rising or setting.
Never yet the mundane way that it’d struck up for the rest of the day.

—

…And then who knows where the star
points at, when it find a tickle either on my eye unto his… I might
just be… who knows… falling… from the sky… like a star… into
his… steps…

this immense.

this immense.

like the world

if he would feel as immense as the world

if he would only feel as same as I would feel as such

then i have found a beautiful kind of love

—

If I ever did the right or wrong- I figured to leave it in faith, cause it’d be anyway my faith that will save me from it…
—
Obsessive giving of oneself- the vulnerability of excess hurt holds true
with it. The obsessive hoping of oneself- the vulnerability of
rejection when expectations don’t come to fit. The obsessive confidence-
could also be ego trashing once other found reasons to put us down,
reasons that are beyond comprehensible.

We have to understand things that are beyond our control and understanding. One can stop loving a person, with or without
a reason. we couldn’t further ask why the nature of love flowing in
their veins just stopped. Nor could we ask the factors cause that would
be digging to further questions: is there someone else? is it because
of lacking that lead to wanting someone else? could wanting be the
result of lacking in oneself? could oneself be not enough to give
everything that the guy wants? does everything have to be given for a
guy or shouldn’t he have compensated for the girl?

So… leads me that we might think we’re right. Or that we’re always
right. Or that we wanna be right. But what leads to becoming right?

—

LIGHT

And so there was light. Or was it the upcomming train? A gun point bullet’s fierce motion? Or that flicker of a far off castaway, trying to be heard but remains star-like, barren among the black and blue sky. So was there ever, that kind of light? Light, in the notion, of illumina. Similar to the light that perks on friend’s faces when they get hinted of their personal interest. Same light that relieves itself at the end of the night when we are ready to drift for another twilight. Is it dreams that go along side LIGHT. That perhaps light, to some, could be seeing life for the first time. While to others, light is the lantern at the cemetery. Light could be the passion that makes one walk on the most stumbling, deceiving places. Light makes us see through even the dark, most unconceivable and fathomless places. Like, the subterranea or the place where there is the dying of the light. Light itself, when dies, is exchanged with a dimmer perhaps- temporal lighting. Might be of a the lamp, the house flourescent, the star, the shimmer on someone’s eye… or on a tear on someone’s grief. Light, will always be existent. Not that there was light, but perhaps, there is light and will always have as such. For as long as there is something comprehensible, despite darkness or the stillness of the night… Light is a promise that comes even in the form of the dark places or illuminated graces. Light is there as hope, as the end that comes undone. Light, in the form of people, of places, of blazes and more. Light, is so endless, that we see them even when our eyes are close. And we feel them even when we feel senseless. There is light even in our mere thought without having to feel anything and without having to see anything. Light is there without the senses even when we are repulsive and unbelieving on it. It will shine, and it will resemble so many more things. Thats why to some, they see it as some inspiration. The light that sees through and shines in time with or without our consent, with or without our knowing. It is there, and if shall ask how it got there… then we will know…